


where the love light gleams

by vuvalinis



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Post-Canon, Winter Solstice, family fluff and all that good stuff, plus smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuvalinis/pseuds/vuvalinis
Summary: “Merry Christmas,” Scylla whispers, her lips still inches from Raelle’s.“S’not Christmas yet,” Raelle replies, lamely. In her own defense, she can’t be expected to come up with something more eloquent when her girlfriend is looking at her likethat.Or: after the war, the gang takes a trip to spend Christmas in the Cession with Raelle's dad. Abi doesn't understand civvie traditions. Scylla doesn't understand how she suddenly hasfriends. Tally justreallywants it to snow, and Raelle's got a very important question to ask.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 21
Kudos: 172
Collections: MFSRI Winter Solstice Fic Exchange 2020





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [99bad_habits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/99bad_habits/gifts).



> Enormous love and thanks to:
> 
> [holeybubushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeybubushka/pseuds/holeybubushka), for The Hat Scene, the choreography edits, the writing advice (with practical real-world applications 👀), and boosting me back up whenever I needed a lift;
> 
> my wonderful patient beta [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane), for even more writing advice (with practical real-world applications 👀), telling me to just give Raelle's room a door, and making this story much stronger than it could have been on its own;
> 
> the Amtrak Northeast Passage train where I wrote a good 60% of the smut scenes;
> 
> and lastly but most importantly, [99bad_habits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/99bad_habits/pseuds/99bad_habits), whose prompts were "Raylla proposal" or "Raylla + the unit holiday." This was _so much fun_ , and I'm so glad I got to do it for you.

~*~

It happens the first time while they’re stuck in traffic in the middle of downtown Charlotte: bumper to bumper in a line of cars down South Graham Street, juddering forward in fits and starts. It’s December nineteenth—two days till the Solstice and six till Christmas—and they’ve already been on the road for twelve hours straight, hurdling ahead of the holiday traffic that seems, at last, to have caught up with them.

A pretty fucking inconvenient time for it, Raelle thinks. Scylla’s got their road atlas—at the moment, spread across her lap like a throw blanket—but Raelle doesn’t need to consult it to know they’re barely halfway there. By her estimate, there’s another twelve hours at _least_ between them and their destination. 

Supposing, of course, that traffic on South Graham Street starts actually _moving_.

“Bet we reach Chippewa Cession just in time for New Year’s,” Abigail mutters, as if she’s read Raelle’s mind. Her voice is muffled, lost somewhere in the recesses of her heavy winter coat. The window closest to her seat doesn’t close all the way; even with the heat cranked up, and one of Tally’s ugly Christmas sweaters stuffed in the crack, there’s a lingering chill in the middle row. They’ve been drawing straws at rest stops for who has to sit there, but nobody, Raelle has to admit, bears it with as much elegant stoicism as Abigail. Or what _would_ be elegant stoicism, if it weren’t offset by the woolly Santa hat Tally’s forcing her to wear.

“Maybe Chippewa Cession could come to _us_ ,” Tally offers. She’s sprawled dejectedly across the very back row, exiled among the remains of their dinner: empty to-go cups of coffee and crumpled paper bags forming a carpet of clutter on the floor around her. Even her ugly Christmas sweater—a monstrosity of tiny, colored LED lights in the shape of a wreath—seems to be twinkling with less and less enthusiasm the longer they sit in traffic. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? No more driving—”

“We’d still be in _Charlotte_ ,” Abigail interrupts, in a tone that puts such a thing on par with being waterboarded.

“—but we could still have our Christmas.” Tally sits up and casts a forlorn look out the windshield. “It’d probably be nice if it wasn’t _raining_.”

Raelle follows her gaze. The line of cars has come to a standstill again, and in the glow of their headlights, the rain looks like hard drops of light, furiously bulleting their way to earth. The whole of the outside world is slick and cold and wreathed in mist—the kind of night Raelle would ordinarily call _miserable_ , even without the traffic and overall fatigue from being stuck in the car. But something keeps it from quite reaching that point in her mind. 

Something, she suspects, that has everything to do with the Christmas lights.

For downtown Charlotte is awash with them: every building twinkles with red and green and gold, and all the streetlights are casting rainbow-colored nets across the pavement. There are light-up reindeer prancing across awnings and inflatable Santas on roofs; there are fake candles flickering from within the darkened windows of apartments, and every scrubby, winter-bare tree that lines the sidewalk seems to glow like a beacon in the cold, wet night. It’s beautiful, pressed as it is against the stony dark of early winter. And if anything, the way the rain blurs it into streaks of light and color only makes it look more beautiful. It touches everything, this way. It bathes the inside of the car in a soft, golden haze you could nearly call _ethereal_.

It reminds Raelle, in a strange way, of being a kid. Of what Christmas used to feel like, back then. 

Her gaze falls on Scylla, asleep in the passenger seat with her head pressed to the window. That same light is gently spilling across the side of her face; there’s a single, messy curl falling across her eyes, and suddenly, Raelle can’t seem to remember what else she had thought was so beautiful. Whatever it was—and her thoughts refuse to organize, made clumsy by the way Scylla’s eyelashes fall across her cheek— _ethereal_ is not the right word to describe it. Not when compared to the sight before her right now. 

It only takes a second for the spell to break: the radio—which has been staticky and difficult ever since they crossed into Carolina—chooses this moment to kick into gear, blasting the opening verse of “Jingle Bell Rock” so loudly that Tally startles, Abigail curses, and Scylla, with a sharp intake of breath, begins to stir.

“Christmas music!” Tally’s ecstatic. “Turn it up!”

Abigail tugs the hood of her coat over her Santa hat. “Can it _go_ any further up?” she grouses. “Also, does it have to be _this_ song?”

Raelle ignores them both, watching instead as Scylla groggily pulls herself upward from sleep. She sits up with the gravity of someone surfacing from deep underwater, but just like every time she wakes, her left hand gropes blindly for Raelle’s. It’s a habit that makes Raelle melt every time—the way that, even half-awake, the first thing Scylla wants is _her_ —and she catches Scylla’s hand out of the air, bringing it to her lips.

“Hey,” she murmurs, kissing Scylla’s fingers. “Sorry to wake you.”

Scylla hums and brushes her thumb against Raelle’s cheek. “How long was I asleep for?” she asks. Her eyes are still closed, and her voice is gravelly with sleep. Raelle can barely tear her eyes away long enough to check the clock on the dashboard.

“Half hour, maybe,” she says. “We’ve been stuck here the whole time.”

“There was talk of windstriking cars,” Tally adds from behind them.

Raelle turns and frowns at her. “We’re not doing that.”

“Abigail said—”

“I _said_ it could be effective,” Abigail interjects peaceably, still from deep within the hood of her coat. “I knew the rest of you wouldn’t let me have any fun.”

Scylla smiles at their bickering and lets her head loll against the back of the seat. “This isn’t that bad,” she says. She sounds lazily content, like there’s nowhere on earth she’d rather be than stuck in traffic with a full day of driving still ahead of them. Her eyes flutter open—still foggy with sleep, but that shade of blue still so electric, it never fails to startle Raelle. It reminds her, in a way, of the Christmas lights, blurred across the windshield by the rain but still so _bright_. 

The slow, indolent smile that curls across Scylla’s face is brighter still.

Raelle has seen that expression so many times before. Every morning that she can remember, waking up in Scylla’s arms and seeing Scylla looking back at her in awe. And every single time, it makes Raelle’s heart feel too big for her chest; but this—this is something completely different. This is Scylla taking her breath away in the middle of traffic: twelve hours into a road trip, in an overheated car, with Raelle’s sisters gently squabbling behind them. A situation that ought to make Raelle feel more tired and cranky than she already is, but instead makes her seriously think that she could happily stay here forever, as long as Scylla’s with her. 

It’s stunning, how much this, the truest thing she knows—that she loves this girl beyond all reason—still has the power to surprise her.

And it’s then that it happens for the first time: the thought pops into her head, out of the blue but all-encompassing in its urgency. _Just do it right now_. 

The sharp report of a car horn snaps her out of it, followed in quick succession by Abigail snapping, “Shitbird!” She blinks as if coming up out of a daze and sees that—of course—the line of cars in front of them has chosen now, of all times, to start moving again.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, dropping Scylla’s hand with some reluctance and shifting the car back into gear. 

She hears Scylla chuckle softly, and Abigail mutter, “Every damn time,” ostensibly for Tally's benefit, but loudly enough that all of them can hear. But none of it really registers. All her mind can keep hold of—albeit shakily—is how damn _close_ she just came to ruining everything.

Because there’s a very specific reason she’s taking them all to the Cession for the holidays. And it’s not so they can meet her dad, or have a real civilian Christmas, or even just _figure out what to do next_ . She may have sold it that way to Scylla—and even, to some extent, to her sisters—but it’s less to do with any of those reasons, and _everything_ to do with the plan Raelle’s been meticulously crafting for months now.

A plan she almost just abandoned without a second thought.

Against her better judgement, Raelle sneaks a look at Scylla. When she does, she sees Scylla looking back at her slyly—the grin on her face now more devilish than soft. She might not know exactly what just happened, but she knows _something_ did, and that alone has got her looking more smug than Raelle’s really comfortable with.

Raelle sighs and resists the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel. Two days till the Solstice and six till Christmas. Suddenly, it all feels such a long way away.

~*~

Here’s the thing: Christmas isn’t something that witches really _do_. It’s a civilian holiday, founded upon civilian religious practice; neither that world nor its traditions have ever really belonged to them. They have their own holidays—Beltane in the spring, Samhain in the autumn, Winter Solstice on the shortest day of the year—and for all the years Raelle’s been at Fort Salem, December twenty-fifth has slipped by unobserved by practically everyone except for her.

Which is why, when she first brought her idea before them—Christmas in the Cession with her dad, and all the rest of it—she’d fully expected Abigail and Tally to say no. What she hadn’t expected was the light that went on in Tally’s eyes.

“ _Christmas?”_ she’d repeated. “Like, a real civvie Christmas? With the tree and everything?”

And Abigail chiming in after, even more astonishingly: “Sure, we’ll come with.” Then frowning: “Why _Christmas_ , though?”

Now—watching the two of them in the rearview mirror, staring out their respective windows, their faces lit up with a red and green glow—Raelle thinks maybe it’s not so surprising after all. The end of the war has left them all a little unmoored: uncertain of so much, and tender in so many unexpected places. Maybe what they all needed was a bit of something familiar. A bit of tradition, even if it isn’t really _theirs_.

A bit of light.

Raelle’s determined to give them just that. A perfect Christmas: new memories for a new beginning. And—her gaze falling on Scylla, who’s busily studying the road atlas again—some good ones to overwrite the bad. 

So when traffic crawls to a standstill again—after they’ve barely made it three blocks at a steady clip—she’s very tempted to take up Abigail’s proposal of a windstrike. Until, that is, she hears Tally gasp from the back seat.

“ _Look_ ,” she says ecstatically. “Up ahead. The park.” 

She points out the windshield at something up ahead and to the left of the car. Raelle squints, but can only make out what seems to be a cluster of covered market stalls, their white awnings flapping like ghosts in the wind, while all around them, tight fists of Christmas lights bloom up out of the dark.

“Looks like a—” she starts to say, uncertain.

“ _Christmas market_ ,” Tally interrupts reverently. “You think that’s why all the traffic?”

“What the hell’s a Christmas market?” Abigail asks, doubtful. Since they’ve started moving again, her mood has improved somewhat; her tone is softer, slightly more indulgent.

“They sell arts and crafts,” Scylla says, surprising them all. She’s addressing her own reflection in the window—and Raelle’s heart breaks a little at that; she can still be so shy and reserved around Abigail and Tally—but her tone is quietly authoritative. “Hot cocoa. Maybe ice skating.” 

When no one says anything to that, she turns and looks at Raelle. “My parents took me to one of these once,” she explains. “I don’t remember where. But it was nice.” 

Raelle grabs hold of her hand and squeezes. Another good memory, she thinks. 

Maybe they can make some new ones.

“We should get out for a minute,” she declares. “Go see.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then: “You’re serious?” Abigail. “Did you forget that it’s _raining?”_

At least, that’s what Raelle thinks she says; Tally’s triumphant whoop drowns out most of the end of her sentence. But Raelle only has eyes for Scylla, and the look Scylla’s giving her right now is achingly soft. She squeezes Raelle’s hand back and smiles at her. A little uncertain still, but not as pensive as she looked a moment ago. Raelle takes it as a win.

She turns, grinning a little, to see Tally, with her light-up sweater blinking furiously, cajoling Abigail. “Just for a few minutes, Abi,” she’s saying, hitting her with the full force of her puppy-dog eyes. “We probably need to stretch our legs anyway, and use the bathroom—”

“ _Fine_ ,” Abigail sighs. “Grab the umbrellas from the back, would you?” She scowls out the window at the rain, but Raelle knows that it’s mostly for show. Neither of them are very good at saying no to Tally. “We’re definitely gonna need them.”

When traffic finally moves up enough to allow them to break off the road, they luck out on parking, and a few minutes later are stumbling out into the lot with umbrellas over their heads and their breath fogging up in the cold air. Tally fairly projects herself out the passenger side, with Abigail following more sedately behind; Scylla lingers near Raelle and uses the excuse of the cold to press their bodies close together, winding an arm around Raelle's waist. When Abigail and Tally are distracted, she drags Raelle in for a swift kiss.

“Missed you,” she whispers against Raelle’s lips. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold and her eyes are sparkling. She’s got a woolly red hat wedged crookedly over her curls, and there’s something about that in particular that makes Raelle melt, even as her teeth start to chatter with cold. 

Scylla looks _normal_ . Just like a normal girl, out on a cold winter’s night with her girlfriend. Like everything, in other words, Raelle’s ever wanted for her—for _them_ —but never could have dreamed they’d actually get.

“I missed _you_ ,” Raelle whispers back, because she knows exactly what Scylla means. She loves having her sisters with them—is happier than she could have imagined, having them along on this trip—but also, it’s nice to be able to steal little moments like this with Scylla. To not have to worry about—

“Goddess, will the two of you stop being gross and come _on?”_

Raelle rolls her eyes and Scylla smiles, stealing another kiss before lacing their cold fingers together. “Better not keep them waiting,” she says. 

“Who put _them_ in charge?” Raelle grumbles as they follow Tally and Abigail toward the entrance to the park. “Last time I checked, I was the one driving.”

Scylla hums in assent. “The trip was _your_ idea, too,” she adds.

“Good idea, so far?” Raelle’s only partly teasing. Even though there’s hardly been anything so far to judge it on—nothing but twelve overcaffinated hours in a car, with Raelle, her sisters, and an endless stream of staticky Christmas music—she badly needs every part of this Christmas to be perfect. 

Especially for Scylla. 

“Mhm.” Scylla bumps her shoulder against Raelle’s. “The best.”

“You’re teasing.”

“I’m not.” Scylla shrugs, looking ahead instead of at Raelle and worrying her lower lip between her teeth. It’s a familiar gesture, and one that Raelle knows means she’s being serious. “I’m with you. That already makes it a good idea.”

She says it with such nonchalance, like she’s not even _trying_ to take Raelle’s breath away. But of course, she is, and Raelle can’t say anything more. Can only bring Scylla’s hand to her lips, kiss her cold fingers, and walk with her the rest of the way into the park.

The Christmas market turns out to be an endless line of covered booths, looping in a circle around the perimeter of the park. Strands of lighted garland wind around their open windows, and a net of yellow-gold lights hangs overhead, creating a canopy of stars. In the center of the park—the middle of the circle of stalls—the dark, enormous bulk of an unlighted Christmas tree stand sentry, looming over the moon-bright surface of a tiny ice skating rink. Tally’s immediately disappointed to see it’s closed.

“Ice skating’s, like, a _staple_ of Christmas,” she sighs.

“There’ll be ice skating when we get to the Cession,” Raelle reassures her. “We usually freeze the pond around this time of year, even if it doesn’t snow.”

Tally perks up instantly. “It might snow, though,” she says.

“It probably won’t.”

“Not with _that_ kind of attitude, it won’t.” Tally shoves her shoulder playfully, but the hope in her voice is sincere.

She’s been obsessed with the idea of a white Christmas ever since she agreed to come on this trip. “Snow’s what makes it feel really _Christmas-y_ ,” she keeps insisting; never mind that she’s hardly an expert on either of those things. Snow and Christian holidays didn’t really feature a lot where she grew up. “ _And_ it’s sort of romantic, don’t you think?”

This part is usually directed at Raelle, with a suggestive wag of her eyebrows.

And Raelle, of course, doesn’t want her to be disappointed. But the fact of the matter is that it snows in Chippewa Cession only slightly more than it does in Sacramento—and never this early into the season. Even, as Tally keeps helpfully reminding them, with the strange weather patterns they’ve been having since the end of the war: nature slowly, painstakingly putting itself to rights, after the kind of Work they had to do to save themselves.

They keep making their way through the market, keeping close to the perimeter so as to better see what’s inside all the market stalls. There’s a surprising number of people here, despite the bad weather; but even more surprising than that is the overall atmosphere. The rain’s still coming down steadily, but you’d never know it from the cheerful, animated way people linger and chat. They lean over market stalls, admiring tree ornaments and hand-knitted scarves and decorated pots blooming thick with poinsettias; their kids weave in and out of the crowd, running with their hair plastered to their faces and candy canes jutting from their sticky mouths. It’s festive, and after a while, Raelle finds she scarcely notices the rain anymore, either. 

Abigail overhears someone say there’s a tree-lighting at seven. “Guess we have to stay for that,” she says, not even attempting to sound grouchy about it. When she spots a stall selling hot chocolate, she immediately buys four without so much as asking if anyone else wants some.

“We’re all gonna catch a cold if we don’t,” she explains, handing around the paper cups, which are hand-decorated with a lacework of silver snowflakes. “This is an investment in our health.”

Tally nods seriously, taking a much longer swig of her cocoa than should really be possible, given how hot it is. “Good thinking,” she agrees. “Smart. Responsible.” 

They find a spot near the tree and settle in with their hot chocolates to wait for the lighting. Already, a crowd’s begun to form: they have to squeeze close together just to keep from being jostled out of place. Raelle grabs Tally’s elbow with one hand and throws her free arm around Scylla, letting her tuck her head into the crook of her neck. The net of lights strung over their heads casts a soft, warm glow over everything, and even though Raelle knows the lights aren’t giving off heat, something about them makes her feel warmer. 

Or maybe, she thinks, it’s nothing to do with the lights. Maybe it’s coming from everything else: the closeness of her sisters and the heat of Scylla’s body. The sounds of the market, and the quiet _hush_ of wind moving through the branches of the tree. “Frosty the Snowman” playing tinnily on a set of overhead speakers. Jewel-bright Christmas lights dripping from every surface. Knowing that tomorrow, she’ll get to see her dad.

It’s _happiness_ , pure and simple. She’d almost forgotten the way it could make you feel lit up from within.

Evidently, Abigail feels some of it, too. At least, Raelle imagines that’s what prompts her to ask, in an unusually subdued tone, “Is this what it was like when you were a kid? The whole Christmas thing, I mean?”

Raelle takes a long sip of her cocoa, contemplating. It’s a question without an easy answer—a question that’s knotted and snarled by years where her mother was deployed for Christmas, where neither she nor her father felt much like celebrating. Or the years when Willa _was_ home, and Raelle was obligated to celebrate both Christmas and Solstice: told by her parents that both holidays belonged to her, while feeling like neither really did. 

But there was goodness, underneath all of that. She knows there must have been, even in the hardest years. How else would she know enough to recognize it now?

“Yes,” she says at last. “It wasn’t always like all this, though.” She waves the hand holding her cup at the tree, still unlit. “But—it was in the way it made me feel.”

Abigail nods once, slowly. Then surprises them all by adding, “What about you, Necro? Rae says you’ve had a Christmas or two.”

Scylla startles, bumping her head against Raelle’s jaw. Slowly, she turns as if to meet Abigail’s gaze, but Raelle can see that her eyes are far away—staring into a past that Raelle can’t follow her into. 

“Yes,” she says at last. “I know what she means. About the way it makes you feel.”

They’re silent for a long moment after that. Raelle pulls Scylla back against her, and they watch in comfortable silence as the crowd around the tree grows bigger, till the music coming from the speakers is abruptly replaced by a fanfare that leads into the opening strains of “O Tannenbaum.”

Some of the children in the audience start to cheer, and everyone, it seems, presses forward at once; till the music swells into its second verse and suddenly, the lights on the Christmas tree snap to life. It happens so quickly as to almost be unceremonious, but the light is too stunning for that. It glows like a miniature sun in the heart of the park, throwing everything into sharp, golden relief: the rain still plummeting steadily down. The faces thronged around the tree, bundled up in hats and scarves and voluminous ponchos, but glowing as if suffused with some of that light. And when Raelle turns to Scylla, that light is reflected in her eyes, too—in her eyes, and at the edge of her smile, and in the raindrops caught in her hair.

Raelle can’t help but grin back at her. “What do you think?” she asks, shouting to be heard over the cheering of the crowd. “Was it—?”

But whatever she was about to say gets cut off abruptly, by the warm press of Scylla’s lips against hers.

It isn’t quick and careful, like the kiss back in the parking lot. It’s slow and deep, with rain slipping down their faces, clinging to eyelashes and noses and lips. It’s Scylla’s hands tangled in Raelle’s hair, and Raelle pressing at Scylla’s lower back so their hips are flush, making Scylla whimper into her mouth. It’s probably, all things considered, too much for being in public; but it’s _addictive_ , the way everything about Scylla is, and when Scylla pulls away, gasping for breath, Raelle grabs her by the collar of her coat and kisses her again.

When they finally break apart, they’re flushed and giggling, breathless and giddy and rain-soaked in the warm, soft light of the tree. Raelle rests her forehead against Scylla’s and brings a hand up to cup her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, and that’s when it happens again: the urge, quick and bright and sudden as an explosion in her heart, to say _fuck the plan_ and just do it right now. Apart from the rain, it’d be perfect: the kind of sweeping, romantic gesture Raelle’s been dead set on since she first decided to do this. But even more than that— _not_ doing it right this minute feels a thousand times more painful than spoiling her own surprise ever could.

But then Scylla sighs against her lips, dragging her fast back into the present. The present where it is very much still raining—harder, it feels like, than it was when they got here—and they are very much in the middle of a public park, with a bunch of strangers bumping and jostling them as they make their way back to the market. Strangers who’d all undoubtedly stop and gawk, if Raelle went and did it right now. 

Not that Raelle minds the idea of that, necessarily. Heaven knows she’d like to shout it from the rooftops, sometimes—make the whole world aware that Scylla is _hers_.

“Merry Christmas,” Scylla whispers, her lips still inches from Raelle’s. Her eyes—that blazing blue, like the color at the very heart of a flame—are still aglow with borrowed light, and her hands are fisted in the front of Raelle’s coat like she’s afraid to ever let her go.

“S’not Christmas yet,” Raelle replies, lamely. In her own defense, she can’t be expected to come up with something more eloquent when her girlfriend is looking at her like _that_.

“No,” Scylla agrees. Her smile shifts, then—becomes a wicked flash of teeth that she knows goddamn well _does_ things to Raelle. “But since we seem to be celebrating early...”

She moves her hands from the front of Raelle’s coat, then, and settles them on her hips, tracing lightly there with her thumbs. Raelle has to fight for her composure, then, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard before she responds.

“Trust me, beautiful,” she says, moving so her lips are close to Scylla’s ear. “You haven’t seen a celebration _yet_.”

Scylla gives a decadent little shiver at that, and presses her forehead back against Raelle’s. “Mean,” she accuses. 

“You started it.”

“That means _you_ have to finish it—”

“Yes, hi,” Tally interrupts pointedly. “We are also here.” 

Raelle has the decency to at least look a little abashed, but Scylla just laughs with delight. “You’re no fun,” she says good-naturedly, and Tally chuckles and shakes her head, eyes twinkling with mischief while Abigail rolls her eyes.

And if Raelle’s heart felt too fucking full a minute ago, it’s fairly _bursting_ now at this rare and lovely thing—her sisters and Scylla laughing at the same joke. 

She lets Abigail and Tally lead them out of the park, hanging back with Scylla so she can take hold of her hand as they walk along. Scylla’s hands are warmer, and her thumb distractedly traces the back of Raelle’s palm.

“Thank you for that,” she says at last, so quietly that Raelle almost misses it. Her eyes have got that faraway cast to them again, but for once, Raelle gets the sense that it’s not a sad thing. Not completely, anyway.

So she gives Scylla’s hand a squeeze, to remind her that she’s right there with her. That she’s not letting go. 

“I’d do anything for you, Scyl,” she says.

~*~

Hours later—once they’ve finally hobbled out of traffic and onto the highway—once Charlotte has receded to a bright pinprick of light, and the low, imposing peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains are looming out of the horizon—Abigail turns to Raelle and says, “Explain the whole Christmas thing again.”

In spite of herself, Raelle startles at the sound of her voice, upsetting the road atlas she’s been using, unwittingly, as a blanket. She blinks and squints at the digital numbers on the dashboard. A little after two a.m. 

“What about it exactly?” she asks, forcing herself to sit upright. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep—had argued with Abigail when she announced she was taking over driving for the night—but her bones feel too heavy for her skin, and her eyelids suddenly seem to weigh about a hundred pounds each. She kicks her legs out lethargically till the atlas slides off her lap.

Abigail, by contrast, looks remarkably bright-eyed. She’s listening to some late-night talk show host with a thick Appalachian twang, and taking neat, mincing little sips of the coffee she bought back at the last rest stop. She doesn’t look at Raelle, even though Raelle _knows_ she can feel her looking: just stares pointedly at the endless black ribbon of road before them, concentrating hard even though they’re the only souls out here right now.

“Why this _thing_ —” She drags the word out slowly, as if Raelle might otherwise misunderstand. “—has to happen on Christmas.” 

And even though Raelle can hear Tally snoring in the back seat—and underneath that, softer, the familiar rhythmic sound of Scylla’s breathing—even though she’s pretty sure they won’t be overheard, she hisses “ _Abi_ ” through her teeth, as threateningly as she can in her current, groggy state. “Not here.”

“You really think they can hear us?” Now Abigail does turn and look at her, if only to give her some of her patented Bellweather side-eye. “Tally’s snoring. She’s out cold.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not Tally I’m worried about, is it?” 

Abigail lets that one go—a peace offering, of sorts—and Raelle uses the momentary silence as an opportunity to glance at Scylla in the back seat. She’s curled up in a ball in the very last row, sleeping with her face pressed against the back of the seat. She looks so small, so young, that Raelle aches with tenderness for her. Aches, too, for the first time in _years_ , for her childhood bed. For tomorrow night, when she can sleep properly, with Scylla in her arms.

“I just—”

Abigail falters, which is a rare enough occurrence that Raelle sits up and pays attention. Even so, she makes a point of _not_ looking at Abigail, giving her the space she needs to collect her thoughts.

“I don’t get this stuff,” Abigail says at last. “But like it or not, I get _you_ , shitbird. You should have seen your face, back there at the tree lighting.” In a much quieter voice, she adds, “I think it was obvious to everyone that you wanted to propose, like, _right_ then.”

Raelle resists giving into the urge to kick her. Instead, she makes herself go utterly still and quiet, listening to the breathing from the back seat. It sounds exactly the same as it did a moment before—slow and even and deep—and she tentatively allows herself to relax again.

“I just don’t understand,” Abigail continues. She sounds apologetic—or as apologetic as Abigail Bellweather ever sounds. “You want this so badly. And I’d be pretty damn surprised if she _didn’t_ want it just as much. Why are you making yourself wait for a holiday she doesn’t even celebrate?”

And Raelle softens, just a little. Because this isn’t the first time they’ve had a conversation like this—Abigail’s been relentless about it, ever since Raelle told her and Tally the plan. The way Abigail shows her love has always been like this, blunt and unapologetic and not terribly self-aware; but Raelle knows that it _is_ love that has her repeatedly annoying Raelle about it. Knows that, above all, Abigail just wants Raelle to be happy.

Just like how, above all, Raelle loves Abigail too. Even when she’s being goddamn frustrating about it.

Which is why, against her better judgement—in open defiance of the impulse, hardwired into her by now, to clam up about all things _proposal_ —she whispers, “She used to do Christmas with her parents.” 

Abigail nods at once. They both know this isn’t Raelle’s story to tell, but Raelle’s sure Abigail can guess most of it, anyway. The way Scylla and her parents used to hide in plain sight, living among civilians, pretending to be one of them. How, every December, they play-acted at a holiday they didn’t completely understand, because to not do so—to be the only house on the block without a Christmas tree—would be to invite suspicion. 

The parts of it Abigail _can’t_ guess, but which Raelle can picture so clearly in her head: how Scylla’s eyes light up, when she talks about those memories. How, for her—just a child at the time—the pretending must have felt real. 

“I just want to give that back to her,” Raelle says softly, more to herself than to Abigail. “I want her to know, before she says yes, that I’m always gonna try to make everything better for her. You know? And Christmas, well.” Suddenly she’s very aware of how sappy she sounds. She glances with trepidation out of the corner of her eye, and yeah, Abigail’s mouth is twitching at the corners. Raelle can just imagine how hard she’s biting her tongue to keep from teasing. 

But then she surprises Raelle by nodding again. “I think I sort of get it,” she says. “I mean, Solstice is when we start to welcome the light back, right? And from everything you’ve said—”

“Christmas is kind of like that, too,” Raelle finishes. “Yeah.” 

An easy, comfortable silence settles in between them. The radio switches over from the talk show to a slow, sweet rendition of “Merry Christmas Darling”, and between the music and the warmth of the car and the lateness of the hour, Raelle can feel herself being lulled back to sleep by degrees.

“Well,” she hears Abigail say, just as she’s on the cusp of it. “You might wanna try being a little less—I don’t know, _twitchy_ about it, then.”

“I am not twitchy,” Raelle mumbles in reply. Her voice sounds very far away, even to her own ears. 

“You _so_ are. _And_ you’re staring at her, like, way more than usual. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you messing around with your pocket, either.” More gently, Abigail adds: “You’ve just gotta be careful, is all. She’s going to notice something’s up.”

Instead of answering, Raelle reaches into her pocket. She has enough presence of mind to glance at the back seat before carefully withdrawing the box she’s been keeping there for weeks now. The box that her dad brought the last time he came to visit, in the spring, while Scylla was away running a job with Anacostia.

“It’s only five more days,” she hears herself say.

Abigail snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, shitbird,” she says with a shake of her head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

~*~

She’s right, though; the following evening, it happens again.

They cross the Virginia state line into Chippewa Cession just as it’s starting to get dark. The sun sinks fast ahead of them over the flatlands, a burning ball of orange and red being drawn into the earth; as the sky burns from sunset pink to deep, velvety blue, Raelle catches Scylla peering out the windshield, trying to see up above them.

“There’ll be stars,” she promises, and is rewarded with a grin that could outshine them all. 

The highway becomes the county road, which becomes the narrow, unpaved thoroughfare of home: treacherous in the dark, but not if you know where you’re going. Even though it’s been years since Raelle’s driven these roads, she remembers every dip and pothole, every sharp bend and curve. Home, it seems, is something you can never completely cast off: it stays with you, tucked inside your rib cage, safe beneath your heart. 

The thought makes her glance sideways at Scylla, who’s still searching out the window for a glimpse of the heavens. Without thinking, her hand sinks back into her pocket.

And then, just as suddenly, the road ends, right in front of 2764 B. And there’s her dad, standing on the front porch waiting for her, just like she knew he’d be: haloed in the light that’s pouring through the windows of the house, where it looks like every single lamp has been turned up as high as it goes. Like he’s trying to create a beacon—like he wanted to be sure Raelle could find her way home.

Raelle doesn’t hesitate, after that; she throws the car into park and leaps out of the driver’s seat, sprinting up the rickety front steps—less rickety than she remembers; he must have finally gotten around to fixing them—and flinging her arms around her dad.

Edwin laughs with genuine delight, the sound of it ringing loud and strong through the quiet of the neighborhood. Raelle squeezes him tight, and her father reciprocates in kind, but it’s not the kind of hug she’s grown used to from him. For the first time in years, he doesn’t hold her like the world is ending—rather, he holds her like he knows this time won’t be the last.

“Kid!” he declares, when at last she lets him go. He’s grinning from ear to ear. His smile, Raelle thinks, is brighter even than the lit-up house behind him. “Glad you finally made it!”

“Nearly missed the house,” Raelle teases, unable to keep an identical grin from spreading across her own face. “Next time you might wanna turn some lights on.”

“Comedian.” He ruffles her hair affectionately, messing up her braids, and turns his gaze over to the car. “Where’s the rest of you? Thought you were bringing the girls.”

“They’re here.” Raelle peers over her shoulder and waves back at the car. “We’re all here,” she adds, unnecessarily; because it’s _true_ , and it’s so lovely to say it out loud. All the people Raelle loves most, together. “We’re all finally here, Dad.”

Her father smiles gently. “You bet,” he agrees. Then, with a sudden, teasing lilt: “Does this mean I’m finally gonna meet _your_ girl?” 

For a second, Raelle just blinks at him, confused by his smiling, hopeful face. Then his words actually register, and _oh_. 

Somewhere between the nineteen straight hours she just spent in the car (and the bad rest-stop coffee she’s been drinking to survive it), she forgot that this was a thing that was happening. 

When she darts a glance at the car, though, and sees Scylla hanging back by the passenger door, the look on her face tells Raelle that, while _she_ might have forgotten, Scylla definitely hasn’t. She looks pale, even with her face half in darkness; and her smile, while steady, is deliberately careless, the way it gets when she’s putting on a front. 

Raelle aches for her, then. Edwin’s come up to Fort Salem a handful of times in the past few years—most recently when he brought Raelle her mother’s engagement ring—but every single time, Scylla’s found some reason to be off-base until he leaves again. Raelle doesn’t completely understand why. She doesn’t want to push, either, though she’s promised Scylla, over and over, that Edwin knows nothing about who she used to be. That even if he _did_ , he’d still love her, just for who she is to Raelle. What she knows, but doesn’t mention, is that Edwin loves her already. She knows it by the way his eyes go soft whenever Raelle talks to him about her, but she’s never been able to put that into words. Maybe if she could, she thinks, Scylla would believe them 

But right now, she just smiles at Scylla, and tries to look calm and encouraging as she waves her over. She watches Scylla’s gaze shift restlessly back and forth for a moment—as if there might be someone else Raelle’s gesturing to—but at last, she comes. 

Once Scylla’s beside her, Raelle can feel how hard she’s shaking—whether from nerves or just the cold or some combination thereof, it’s impossible to say. All she knows for sure is that when she places a hand on Scylla’s lower back, she feels her relax just a little; and that when she looks back up at her dad, he’s got that soft look in his eyes again.

“Dad,” she says, “this is Scylla. Scyl, this is my dad.” 

It’s strange to be introducing them this way—strange to think that the two most important people in her life as people have never met. Stranger still, and so oddly _formal_ to watch Scylla (still with that light, careful smile plastered on her face) offer a hand for her father to shake.

“So nice to finally meet you,” she says cheerfully. But there’s a tremor in her voice, and Raelle can’t help but wonder if her dad can hear it, too. If he does, he gives no indication; instead, he smiles at Scylla, and takes her offered hand warmly between both of his.

“It’s nice to meet you too, sweetheart,” he says, with such sincerity, Raelle can see the surprise of it registering across Scylla’s face. “Rae’s told me a lot about you. Seems I have you to thank for keeping her out of trouble.”

He’s teasing, but Raelle knows that he means it, too. Knows that Scylla realizes it, too, because the most remarkable thing happens: her expression visibly softens, that artless, devil-may care look on her face easing into something more true. Something a lot closer to the image of her Raelle has in her mind—the version of Scylla she thinks of as _real_ , that only a handful of people get to see.

“Well, I do what I can,” Scylla says, voice bright and teasing without affectation. “Hard to keep her out of trouble _all_ the time.”

“Oh, really?” Raelle’s laughing now, mostly with relief, but also because this is _good_ . This is exactly what she’d been hoping for, when she told Scylla she wanted to take her home for Christmas. “Ask her how she knows so much about _trouble_ , Dad.” 

“Because I’m always keeping you out of it,” Scylla retorts primly. But her eyes are sparkling with mischief; and when Edwin catches her gaze, the look they share is downright conspiratorial. 

That’s when it happens again.

Raelle had been so sure that it wouldn’t. After talking to Abigail about it last night—after defending her decision to wait until Christmas—she’d thought her resolve was firm. It’s only now, watching her dad and her girlfriend grinning at each other, that she realizes it could never be. Not when all Scylla has to do is smile, and all Raelle’s plans crumble to dust.

Not when this moment is so absolutely _perfect_ , it seems almost worse to waste it. 

Her hand is in her pocket before she has a chance to reconsider—before she can so much as wonder what her father will think, if she gets down on one knee right now. She’s spared from finding out when a loud _thunk_ startles all three of them at once, drawing their attention back to the car. 

Tally pokes her head around it and beams at them, like they didn’t just hear the sound of something potentially breaking. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Collar!” she says cheerfully. 

Edwin looks bemused. “Need some help over there, Tal?” he calls, already making his way over to her. 

“No, we’re good! Don’t come over here, some of these are presents!”

“ _Heavy_ presents,” Abigail interjects. “If Tally didn’t pack so many sweaters—”

“It’s _Christmas_ , Abi, we _need_ the sweaters—”

Beside her, Raelle hears Scylla laugh quietly. She turns to smile at her, and Scylla responds by threading her arms around Raelle’s waist, pulling her close and hooking her chin on her shoulder. 

“How heavy can a bunch of _sweaters_ be?” she murmurs close to Raelle’s ear.

Raelle reaches up and squeezes her hand, listening for a minute to her sisters’ good-natured bickering, and her father’s laughter threading over and around it. “With Tally, you never can tell.” After a second’s deliberation she adds, “Told you my dad would love you.”

Scylla huffs out a concessional laugh and presses cold lips against Raelle’s cheek. “Come on,” she says, reluctantly untangling herself from Raelle. It’s so much colder, Raelle thinks dismally, without the warmth from her body. “We’d better go help them, if we want this car unpacked before Christmas.”

As she starts to head back to the car, Raelle pauses for a moment on the porch. Part of her still can’t quite believe it’s all real—even hearing their voices, her dad and her sisters, together. Even watching Scylla walk over to join them: something that, even a short while ago, she couldn’t have imagined Scylla doing on her own.

“It happened again, didn’t it?”

Raelle startles to see Tally at the foot of the porch, casually holding a duffel bag that looks like it weighs twice as much as she does. Her eyes are twinkling to match the lights on her sweater. 

“What?” Raelle says, feigning innocence till she realizes—mentally cursing herself—that her hand is in her pocket again.

Tally sighs, shaking her head as if Raelle is a bitter disappointment. “Abi’s right, Rae,” she says, unable to keep the glee out of her voice as she shoulders past Raelle into the house. “You’re _hopeless."_

~*~

Once everything’s been brought inside, Edwin shoos them all into the living room to warm up by the fire. “The heating in here can be tricky,” he says, apologetic. “But there’s plenty of extra blankets if it gets too cold.” 

After he’s gone back into the kitchen—politely refusing Tally’s repeated offers to help—Raelle sinks onto the sofa between Abigail and Scylla, letting the warmth from the fire seep under her skin as she takes it all in. The house is smaller than she remembers, and significantly more tidy; Edwin must have been at it for days to get it looking this neat. And while she’s sure it’s shabbier than what Abigail and Tally are used to, they don’t seem to mind it. The looks on their faces are pure exhaustion and contentment, like they too have come home after a long, long day. 

Abigail’s apparently too tired to even bother taking off the Santa hat Tally’s made her wear. Between it and the blinking lights on Tally’s sweater, the two of them look downright festive. Raelle tells them so, and Abigail rolls her eyes, face splitting into a reluctant smile.

“Festive’s gonna have to wait a little while longer,” she says. “It’s the Solstice first, remember? Tomorrow.”

When Edwin announces that dinner’s ready, they crowd around the dining room table—something Raelle can’t remember them doing since the year before her mother’s last deployment . It’s cramped with five of them, everyone bumping elbows and getting in each other’s space; but the mood is congenial, everyone laughing and animated. When Raelle hears Scylla laugh at something Tally says–a real laugh, startling and clear—she’s so shocked she drops her spoon into her soup. 

“Who raised you?” Edwin teases when he sees her awkwardly try to fish it out.

Raelle raises an eyebrow at him. “Who taught you to cook?” she counters.

Edwin puts both hands up in surrender, which makes everyone laugh again. “It’s true,” he admits. “My culinary skills are—”

“Bad,” Raelle interrupts. “They’re bad.” To Scylla she adds, “Soup from a can is about _all_ he knows how to cook.”

“Which is why _we’ve_ got Christmas dinner covered,” Tally interjects peaceably. “I’m making turkey.”

Edwin fairly beams at her. Just like everyone else, he’s got a soft spot for Tally. “And we’ll _all_ be grateful for that,” he says.

After that, they’re too tired to do much more than clean up the kitchen and make their way to bed. Tally and Abigail go first, yawning and waving as they head downstairs to the basement, where Edwin’s made up cots for them. Edwin follows not long after, pleading an early shift at the station.

“Anyway,” he adds, “I gotta rest up if I’m gonna be keeping up with you young people all week.”

Raelle rolls her eyes at that and kisses him goodnight. He holds her for a long moment—like he used to those times he saw her during the war—but there’s a spring in his step as he walks off to bed, and Raelle can hear him faintly humming over the sound of running water in his bathroom.

He’s _happy_. 

Raelle’s happy, too. She hadn’t known quite what to expect, coming home—who she would be here, after being away so long—but she never imagined it would feel exactly the same as it always did. Warm. Safe. _Familiar_.

But better, now, than it ever could have been before. Because now, Scylla’s here with her: curled against Raelle on the couch, clutching one of their old, threadbare quilts around her shoulders. Her head’s tucked into the crook of Raelle’s shoulder, her slow, sleepy breaths fanning across Raelle’s neck; and it’s all so warm and lazy and comfortable, Raelle thinks she wouldn’t mind if they just stayed right here for the rest of the night.

That is, until Scylla hums against her neck and says, “So when do I get to see _your_ room?”

Instead of replying, Raelle absentmindedly traces the line of Scylla’s jaw with her thumb. “What,” she teases, “you mean you don’t wanna sleep downstairs with Abi and Tally?”

Scylla swats playfully at Raelle’s hand; before she makes contact, Raelle catches hers out of the air and swiftly kisses her fingers. “Seriously, though,” she says. “You tired? We can go to bed if you want.”

Scylla shakes her head. “Not tired,” she says. “Not _yet_.” She catches Raelle’s gaze and bats her eyelashes, as if she might have somehow missed her meaning. “I think I want to shower first, though, if that’s okay.”

“’Course.” Privately, Raelle’s been hoping she’d say that. An idea has been brewing in the back of her mind ever since they first walked in the door; in order to pull it off, she needs Scylla out of the way. 

Abigail and Tally might not have noticed—being relatively new to the whole Christmas thing—but Raelle did, and she’s sure it caught Scylla’s attention, too. Even though the house is spotlessly clean (or as spotlessly clean as it ever gets), Edwin hasn’t put up a single decoration yet. Not even a single string of Christmas lights.

And while she’s sure it doesn’t make a difference to Scylla, to her, it feels somehow wrong. She’s trying to give Scylla—give all of them—as perfect a Christmas as possible; for that, it needs to _feel_ like Christmas. 

So while Scylla’s in the shower, Raelle makes a beeline for the closet at the end of the hall. She may not have time to decorate the whole house—nor, if she’s being completely honest, the _energy_ —but what she’s thinking of might be just as good for right now.

~*~

Twenty minutes later, she’s lying on her bed admiring her handiwork when there’s a soft knock on the door. 

“Come in,” she calls, sitting up and swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Her whole body screams in protest at the upward motion—her exhaustion finally caught up to her, now that she’s in her own bed—but all thoughts of sleep fly out of her head when Scylla steps tentatively through the threshold, holding a towel up around her. 

“Is it all right if— _oh.”_

Raelle grins, watching Scylla’s mouth drop open for a second, then curve into a delighted smile as she takes in what Raelle’s done.

“What’s all this?” she teases. “Mood lighting?”

“Christmas lighting,” Raelle corrects. “You like it?”

It’s not, she knows, her most elegant work. After several failed attempts to rig the lights up all around the room—accidentally crushing a bulb underfoot in the process, and nearly blowing out the entire string—she’d had to settle for keeping it simple. The lights are now strung between the posts at the head of her bed, a messy halo of blinking Christmas red and green; but it bathes the room in soft light just the same. And judging by the look on Scylla’s face—that wide, unguarded smile of hers, which Raelle is completely weak for—she doesn’t mind that it’s not very fancy. 

“I love it,” she declares. “Did your dad put them up for you?”

“I did. Just now.”

Scylla laughs, kicking the door shut behind her and coming to stand between Raelle’s legs. “Sneaky,” she says approvingly. “Very sneaky.” She taps her thumb against Raelle’s chin, then pulls back a little, her expression suddenly serious. She studies Raelle for a minute—those piercing blue eyes seeing everything, but betraying nothing—then declares, “I know what you’re doing, you know.”

And just like that, Raelle’s heart is in her throat. She has to swallow hard before she can speak, and when she does, all she can manage is a croaky, “Oh?”

She wills herself, then—with every bit of strength left in her—not to let her gaze drift over to where her coat’s hanging on the wall. 

“Mm-hm.” Scylla sounds far too pleased with herself, so much so that Raelle’s sure she’s figured it all out. Right up until, that is, Scylla adds, “You’re trying to make everything perfect. You’re worried it’s not going to be a good Christmas if it’s not perfect.”

Raelle exhales slowly, trying not to be obvious about it. It helps that Scylla’s actually partly correct. Maybe Raelle knows better—knows that perfect in _anything_ is impossible—but for Scylla, for Christmas, she needs things to come as close as possible.

So she says, “Guilty as charged,” and brings her hands to rest on Scylla’s hips, gently pulling her closer.

Scylla moves her thumb from Raelle’s chin to the line of her jaw, tracing the scar on the side of her face. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, Raelle,” she says, her eyes soft. “I meant what I said yesterday. As long as I’m with you, that’s enough for me.” She rests her whole hand, then, on the side of Raelle’s face, cupping it gently as she adds, “That’s _always_ going to be enough for me.”

She’s so vulnerable right now, Raelle thinks. So open and honest and unflinching, even though Raelle knows she hates how exposed this kind of honesty makes her feel. She doesn’t realize that, right now, she’s got Raelle completely in her thrall: rendered swiftly, absolutely helpless with love. Helpless to the point where all she can do is turn her head to kiss the palm of Scylla’s hand, and say, somewhat hoarsely, “That’s always enough for me, too.” 

They stay there for a moment, holding each other’s gazes as the red-and-green glow of the Christmas lights washes over them softly. It’s so peaceful that Raelle’s about a second away from calling it a night—pulling Scylla down on top of her and sleeping for, oh, the next twenty-four hours—when she catches a glimpse of something all too familiar and mischievous pass through Scylla’s eyes. She drops her hand back to Raelle’s shoulder and takes a long, approving look at the room around them, at which point Raelle finally remembers that _Scylla is in her childhood bedroom_. 

Her childhood bedroom, which Raelle knows for a _fact_ is full of embarrassing things—childhood pictures and diaries and who knows what else—

“So,” Scylla drawls, exactly as if she’s read Raelle’s mind. “ _This_ is little Raelle’s bedroom.” There’s that look in her eye again, a gleam of light that has nothing to do with Raelle’s decorations. “If these walls could talk, hm?” 

“Oh, no.” Raelle laughs, but she can hear a note of panic in it. Judging by the way Scylla’s grin widens, she can, too. “No, we are _not_ going there right now.”

“Really.” Scylla raises a single eyebrow at her. It’s a trick that always makes Raelle get a little weak in the knees—a fact that Scylla is _very_ well aware of. “And why’s that? Got something to hide in here, Collar?” 

Raelle could almost laugh at that, because Scylla has _no idea_ just how close to the truth she is. Instead, she falls back on the only thing that’s always good for distraction: she places her hand on top of the one Scylla’s using to hold up her towel and gives her a _look_.

The effect is immediate: Scylla goes still, her wide, flirtatious smile taking on a new, almost bashful slant. Even in the dim glow, with the Christmas lights casting everything in a reddish hue, Raelle can see the flush slowly creeping up Scylla’s chest to her neck; and just like that, Raelle’s _wide_ awake, even before Scylla bites her lip and gives the smallest of nods.

“Your dad—” she says; or rather, starts to say. Before she has a chance to finish, Raelle’s already pulled her into her lap, shutting her up with a bruising kiss. 

Scylla’s only caught off her guard for a moment, kissing back with equal fervor. A high-pitched whine rises out of her throat as her mouth chases Raelle’s, and her body goes pliant so quickly, melting against Raelle’s so easily, that if Raelle had to guess, she’d say Scylla’s been thinking about this for a while.

Which, _good_. It’s only been a couple of days, but if Raelle didn’t have so much else jostling for space in her brain, she’d be going crazy right about now. Scylla’s like an addiction: however much Raelle has of her, she never stops wanting more. Never stops feeling wild, reckless, and sometimes just plain stupid in her presence.

Still, she tries to show a modicum of restraint—slowing her kisses down while she gently tugs the towel down Scylla’s back. It pools on the floor beneath their feet while Raelle lets her fingers take in every inch of skin she can reach. She runs her palms down Scylla’s arms and feels gooseflesh rise under her touch; she digs her fingernails lightly into the smooth expanse of Scylla’s back, and then, when Scylla gasps, does it again. Her touch is slow and languorous, and it’s not long before she hears Scylla whine in frustration and feels her tug at the front of her shirt. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she complains, moving her lips to the underside of Raelle’s jaw. Raelle groans in response and threads her fingers through Scylla’s hair, holding her in place.

“Yeah?” she says, her voice already grown embarrassingly unsteady. She’s only wearing boxers and an old lacrosse sweatshirt—the only clean things she has left after their trip—but right now, she couldn’t agree with Scylla more. “Guess you’d better do something about that, then.” 

Scylla needs no further encouragement: she reaches for the hem of Raelle’s sweatshirt with hands that are visibly _shaking_ with need, and yanks it over her head in one swift motion. And then her hands are everywhere, tracing their way from Raelle’s shoulders to her breasts, circling her nipples until they’re hard beneath her touch. Raelle can’t help the strangled little cry that escapes her, then, and Scylla grins wolfishly in response, her eyes in the dim light so dark with lust that they look almost completely black. 

“These, too,” she murmurs, reaching for the waistband of Raelle’s boxers.

But Raelle’s not one to give in so easily—even in situations like this, where part of her really, _really_ just wants to surrender and let Scylla have her way with her. Instead, she situates her hands on Scylla’s hips again, and maneuvers them both so that Scylla’s straddling her thigh. She’s rewarded when Scylla cries out in startled pleasure, so unabashedly loud that Raelle spares a single, dazed thought for her father and sisters at the other end of the house.

A single thought is all she has the capacity for, though, because then Scylla starts grinding against her thigh, and covering her neck in messy, open-mouthed kisses; and then that, along with every other thought, flies right out of Raelle’s head. 

She’s distracted to the point that when Scylla retaliates and pushes her down on the bed, Raelle offers no resistance. Just whines, embarrassingly high-pitched and needy, and digs her fingers into Scylla’s hips. Scylla continues to move steadily against her thigh, dragging her cunt through the wetness that’s pooled underneath her. The sight is so intoxicating that it sends a bolt of heat straight to Raelle’s core.

“Scyl,” she gasps, and tries to move her hands lower. Scylla intercepts her swiftly, seizing hold of her wrists and pinning them next Raelle on the mattress.

Raelle has to pause for a moment, trying to calm her erratic breathing enough to speak. “Excited, are we?” she teases.

Scylla leans forward and takes Raelle’s lower lip between her teeth. “Oh, don’t even,” she growls.

But if anything, her agitation just gets Raelle that much higher—makes her that much more determined to wind Scylla up more. 

“You’re already so wet,” she purrs, putting her mouth close to Scylla’s ear. They’re pressed so close together that she can feel the delicious little shiver that works its way through Scylla’s body at her words, so she repeats them: “I can _feel_ how wet you are.” She bites down lightly on Scylla’s earlobe, then soothes the nip with the tiniest flick of her tongue. “It’s only been, what? Two days? You must have missed me _bad_.”

Scylla chokes out a furious little laugh and pushes her knee between Raelle’s legs, pressing it firmly against her cunt. The contact makes them both gasp—Raelle only just now noticing how absolutely soaked she is—but Scylla recovers first, lips turning up in a wicked smile once more.

“Seems like I’m not the only one,” she says, unbearably smug. “ _You_ must have missed _me_ . _Bad_.”

And even though Raelle’s the one who said it first—even though the only _reason_ she said it was to get Scylla more worked up—having them flung back in her face now (while Scylla’s still riding her thigh so prettily, chest and neck flushed and eyes darkly glittering) makes Raelle pause, and consider.

Because it’s all a little bit astonishing: Scylla, here, naked in her childhood bed. The same bed where she used to bring her conquests back in high school—girls with pretty faces and eyes that could never quite meet hers. Girls who were good for an hour or two, but made it clear after that that was all Raelle could have of them. Girls who Raelle had made herself wretched over, thinking that was love, because the possibility that love could be something more, something _better_ , was too dazzling to hope for.

But now, everything’s different. Now, Raelle has Scylla: squirming around in her lap, with her chest heaving and her eyes half-lidded and her temples beaded with sweat. Looking at her with such awe and lust and adoration, it’s almost too much to meet her eyes. And the dissonance between then and now suddenly has Raelle so overcome that for a moment, she freezes in place. Scylla, noticing her distraction, slows her movements—a herculean effort on her part, Raelle thinks—and touches her fingers softly to the side of Raelle’s face.

“You okay?” she asks.

Raelle nods slowly, coming gradually back into the moment. Suddenly, on impulse, she grabs hold of Scylla’s hips again and uses the weight of her body to flip them both over, pressing Scylla down into the mattress and straddling her hips.

“Raelle!” Scylla laughs breathlessly. She twists her hips, trying futilely to get enough leverage to flip them back over; but Raelle knows all her tricks, and keeps her pinned down until, with a huff of displeasure, Scylla relents underneath her.

It’s exhilarating—leaves Raelle breathless and triumphant, flushed with her little victory—but her hands, when they start to caress their way down Scylla’s body, are gentle and slow. Scylla, confused by the change in pace, goes docile under her touch after a moment, sighing at the way Raelle traces the freckles on her collarbone with just the tip of her finger.

“You’re right,” Raelle murmurs, her tone all softness and light. “I _did_ miss this.”

It costs her nothing, now, to admit. Especially not when her hands move lower, tracing the freckles on Scylla’s breasts, avoiding touching her where she most wants it. Scylla squirms under her ministrations, moaning softly, and Raelle can only imagine how wet and desperate she must be getting. 

But it’s terribly, vitally important all of a sudden that Scylla understands how precious she is. That Raelle makes her _feel_ how precious she is.

And so she begins to slowly work her way down Scylla’s body with her fingers and mouth, brushing light kisses over every bit of skin she comes in contact with. She nips at Scylla’s freckles, following familiar constellations over her shoulders and breasts; she mouths at Scylla’s nipples till Scylla’s trembling with pent-up need. But Raelle determinedly keeps her pace: creating a slow, powerful build that has Scylla squirming against the sheets, fists bunched up in them, arching her back and rocking her hips in a desperate bid for more stimulation.

“ _Please_ ,” she finally rasps out, threading her fingers through Raelle’s braids and gently pushing her head lower. “Raelle, _please_.”

And Raelle obliges, hooking one of Scylla’s legs over her shoulder and moving her mouth down to where Scylla needs her. She lets her warm breath fan out over Scylla’s center, relishing the filthy moan it wrings out of her, before giving her what she wants, licking a hot line from the bottom of her cunt all the way to her swollen clit.

The sound that comes out of Scylla’s throat is downright debauched, and so loud that Raelle giggles and eases off with her tongue, ignoring Scylla’s whine of protest.

“Easy,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against Scylla’s inner thigh. “You wanna wake the whole house?”

The hand tangled in her braids grips tighter. “I’ll be good,” Scylla chokes out. “I _promise_ , Raelle, please—”

“Please what?” Raelle grins against Scylla’s thigh, enjoying the way she moans in frustration, fingers in Raelle’s hair clumsily trying to tug her head back where she wants it. 

“Put your mouth on me,” she begs. “Raelle—”

Raelle cuts her off with another slow lap of her tongue, picking up a steady rhythm that within minutes has Scylla panting and cursing. She cants her hips up desperately, grinding herself against Raelle’s tongue, her wetness smeared all over Raelle’s mouth and running down her chin.

No, Raelle thinks dazedly, as she sinks two fingers into Scylla’s wet, fluttering heat—as she hears Scylla practically sob with pleasure, and sees the way her whole body’s drawn tight as a bowstring. No: even if someone had told her, all those years ago, that Scylla was out there waiting for her, she doesn’t think she would have believed them. _Still_ can’t quite believe it, sometimes—even when Scylla’s digging her nails into her shoulders, and gasping _“Please—please—please—”_ , her cunt clenching so hard around Raelle’s fingers—

When she comes, it’s with a long moan of Raelle’s name, pumping her hips furiously to meet Raelle’s fingers and tongue. Her face is adorably scrunched up in concentration, back arched and hands fisted in the sheets; she’s so beautiful that Raelle can’t tear her eyes away, till at last Scylla begins to ease back down from her high, gasping and shuddering, her fingers limply stroking Raelle’s hair.

Raelle takes her time, after that, moving her way back up Scylla’s body: leaving wet kisses along her stomach and breasts, at last pressing her mouth softly against Scylla’s. Scylla sighs with contentment, gripping the back of Raelle’s head weakly to keep her in place.

“Merry Christmas,” Raelle murmurs against her lips when they finally break apart.

Scylla gives a strangled laugh. “Is that what you meant?” she asks. “When you said there was more celebration to come?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Raelle pretends to look thoughtful, tapping her chin. “I don’t know if that’s _all_ I meant, though.” She grins wickedly down at Scylla, whose eyes widen for only a second before her lips turn up in an insolent grin of their own. 

“Good,” she says sweetly. “I was _hoping_ you’d say that.”

And with a strength that frankly astonishes Raelle, given how hard Scylla’s just come, she flips them back over and straddles her. She beams at Raelle’s look of astonishment, and with agonizing slowness, begins to kiss her way down Raelle’s body.

No, Raelle thinks again, resting her hand on top of Scylla’s head as it moves steadily lower. She doesn’t think she’ll ever completely get used to the idea that Scylla is _hers_. But even more remarkable, in some ways—even harder, at times, to wrap her head around—is that she is Scylla’s, too. 

~*~

The morning of the Solstice dawns bright and cold—a sliver of pale, winter-blue sky peering in through the cracks in Raelle’s blinds, while the weak, newly-risen sun bathes the room in soft golden light. There’s a delicate lacework of frost riming the windows, and for a dazed second, Raelle thinks Tally might have actually been right about the snow. It’s not until she sees her breath, frozen in front of her face, and hears how quiet the room’s become, that she realizes it’s just the heat gone out again. 

Sighing, Raelle starts to get up. She moves carefully, so as not to wake Scylla—whose breath is still warm and even next to her ear, her body a soft, protective parenthetical into which Raelle is pressed—but as soon as she rolls over, Scylla moans sleepily and tightens her grip around her waist.

“Stay,” she mumbles against Raelle’s neck. 

Gently, Raelle turns back around in her arms, pressing her cold lips to Scylla’s forehead. Scylla shivers at the touch but doesn’t loosen her grip.

“I gotta go start the fire,” Raelle whispers into her hair. “The heat’s gone out.”

Scylla doesn’t open her eyes, even when Raelle gently brushes away the loose hair that’s fallen in her face. She just sighs, and burrows her head into the crook of Raelle’s neck. “You’re keeping me warm,” she says. 

And for a moment, Raelle’s tempted. The softness of the morning, and the drowsy warmth of Scylla’s body, and the way her lips brush across Raelle’s collarbone with the lightest of touches: all of it is too tender to ever want to leave. Especially when it’s so rare that the two of them can spend a morning like this, wrapped up in each other and unfettered by responsibilities. It occurs to Raelle for the first time—her heart suddenly beating so fast, she’s sure that Scylla, pressed up close against her, can hear the change—that every morning could be like this, from now on. 

Her gaze flits back across the room to where her coat’s hanging. Quickly—before she’s tempted again—she shoves the thought aside and kisses Scylla’s forehead again, gently disentangling herself from her arms.

“ _Shh_ ,” she whispers when Scylla protests. “Go back to sleep. I’ll bring you coffee.” 

It’s the promise of coffee that finally gets Scylla to loosen her grip and relent. Either that, or she falls straight back to sleep, which Raelle can’t blame her for. It’s warm in their bed, and as soon as she slips out of it, the cold air hits her so sharply that all she wants to do is dive back in. To thread her limbs back around Scylla’s and sleep the rest of the morning away, folded against her body.

Instead, she grits her teeth and throws on some clothes as fast as she can. After a moment’s deliberation, she puts her coat on, too, huddling inside it as she ventures out into the house.

It’s just as still and quiet here as it was in her room, though there’s evidence that someone else is up and about: the hearth is cold, but there’s a pot of coffee already warming on the stove, and Raelle can hear the familiar rusty creak of the porch swing moving back and forth outside. She does a quick bit of Work to get the fire going—technically, she knows how to start it without, but it’s faster this way—then helps herself to a cup of coffee and steps out onto the porch.

Tally’s sitting in the middle of the porch swing, cocooned in about twenty blankets with a mug of coffee warming her hands. She’s staring out over the overgrown, winter-gray grass of the backyard, her eyes unfocused in that way they get when she’s scrying. But she looks peaceful—calmer than Raelle’s seen her in a long time—and she’s almost sorry to have disrupted her, till Tally glances up at her and grins.

“There she is,” she says, patting the empty spot beside her on the swing. “Come sit. You can have a blanket.”

Raelle sits, perching her coffee precariously on her lap as she steals one of Tally’s blankets and wraps it around her shoulders. “ _One_ blanket,” she remarks. “Generous.”

“I’m known far and wide for my philanthropy,” Tally agrees. She reaches across to clink her mug against Raelle’s. “Happy Solstice, by the way.”

“Happy Solstice,” Raelle says, remembering. “What’s got you up so early?”

Tally shrugs. “Last time we’ll see the old sun rise,” she says, taking a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “Just felt like I wanted to see it.”

“Yeah, but it’s _cold_ ,” Raelle points out unnecessarily. 

“Not so bad in the sun.” Tally grins a little. “Plus, the cold just means—”

“Tal, you _know_ how much I hate bursting your bubble—”

“—it might snow.” Tally lifts an eyebrow at her in challenge, and Raelle, after a beat, laughs and raises her hands in defeat.

“Fine,” she sighs, taking a mincing sip of her own coffee. “It _might_. Where’s Abi?”

“Oh, sleeping like the dead,” Tally says cheerfully. “I tried to make her get up, and she tried to punch me in the face.” She peers at Raelle over the lip of her mug, eyes all twinkly in that way Raelle pretends is annoying. “Surprised _you’re_ not still asleep, too. Sounded like you had a—“

“Do _not_ finish that sentence.” 

The laugh that bursts out of Tally is so warm it almost makes the air between them feel less cold. 

“Seriously, though.” Tally glances over her shoulder and stage whispers, “ _Are you gonna do it tonight?”_

“What? Tal, no—”

“Because the Solstice is about new beginnings, right?” she continues, as if Raelle hasn’t spoken. “So I think it’d be, you know. _Significant._ ” She wags her eyebrows.

Raelle just shakes her head, and, even though she’s pretty sure Scylla’s still asleep, darts a quick behind her before answering. 

“It’s gotta be Christmas Eve,” she says quietly. “That’s the plan. A plan which you are _part of_ , by the way.” Truthfully, Raelle’s been avoiding thinking about the plan, except in the most abstract of terms; if she starts thinking about all its moving parts, all the things that have to go _perfectly_ , her palms start to sweat. 

To say nothing of how she feels when she thinks about actually asking the question. 

So when Tally shakes her head and groans, “I _know_ , I _know_ ,” Raelle lets loose a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m just _excited_ , Rae. For both of you.” She suddenly looks a little choked up about it, which Raelle would find more alarming if she weren’t used to this sort of thing from Tally. “When I think of everything you’ve been through, and—”

“Everything who’s been through?” 

Tally jumps, and Raelle whips her head around—too fast, she realizes belatedly, for it to look anything but suspicious. Because _of fucking course_ , there’s Scylla, standing in the doorway with a blanket clutched around her shoulders. Her eyes are still foggy with sleep; if she’s noticed how strange Raelle and Tally are acting, she doesn’t show it. Just sinks down next to Raelle on the porch swing, and laces her arms back around her waist, propping her chin on her shoulder. 

The knot of panic in Raelle’s chest loosens a bit. Scylla’s still hardly awake. It’s unlikely she overheard much of the conversation, and if she did—

She shoves the thought away and turns to bump her forehead gently against Scylla’s. “Hey, baby,” she whispers, even though Tally’s right there, and Raelle has a pretty hard and fast no-pet-names-in-front-of-sisters rule. In her defense, Scylla caught her off guard. And at least it’s just Tally. “Thought you were asleep.”

Scylla yawns in response and burrows her face into Raelle’s shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep without you,” she mumbles. “And there was talk of coffee.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Raelle rests her hands on top of Scylla’s where they’re laced around her middle, giving her an apologetic squeeze. “Been talking with Tally.” 

Scylla hums in agreement. “Hi, Tally,” she says into Raelle’s shoulder. 

Tally gives her an awkward little wave. “Hi, Scylla.”

“No ‘hi, Abigail’?” Abigail’s voice drawls from somewhere behind them. “I see how it is.” 

They all look up to see her standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee in each hand. Despite Tally’s claims, she looks disturbingly bright-eyed and cheerful, as if she’s been awake for hours. She prods Tally till she scoots over on the swing and then, to everyone’s complete astonishment, hands Scylla the extra mug of coffee.

“Always picking up your slack, Collar,” she says with a put-upon sigh. Unaware that everyone’s still gawking at her—or maybe just fully aware and enjoying it—she leans back in the swing and takes a long, contemplative sip of her coffee. 

“Gotta say,” she remarks. “Not the worst way to start a morning.”

Tally shakes her head in agreement, still staring out at the field of dead grass and the brightening sky above it. “No,” she agrees, her voice as faraway as her gaze. “No, it really isn’t.”

And Raelle’s tempted to interject by reminding them it’s nothing special really: just a rickety old porch swing, in a tiny, overgrown backyard, in her tiny, dirt-poor town. Not worth writing home about on the best of days, but the crazy thing is: with the four of them, it all feels different. 

With the four of them—all crammed onto the swing together, bumping elbows and jostling for space and spilling coffee—Raelle’s can honestly say that _nothing special_ wouldn’t do it justice.

~*~

Midnight has long come and gone by the time they make it up the hill for the Solstice.

Back at Fort Salem, Raelle knows, the celebrations will have already been going on for hours. There’ll be bonfires all over the frostbitten grounds, and garlands of mistletoe and holly; there’ll be spiced ale flowing freely all night, and music—something appropriately somber for the final descent of the sun, till it rises again, newly born, in the morning. She remembers all the traditions, though the Solstices themselves run together in her memory: they become one long, dark-glittering night, half-obscured in a fog of sleeplessness and alcohol, but so warm, and so peculiarly bright.

It’s the warmth and the brightness she thinks of as she urges her dad’s rheumatic truck up the hill—wheezing a little beneath the weight of the firewood they’ve loaded into its bed. Their Solstice won’t be nearly as grand as Fort Salem’s, but if she can capture those feelings, even in the smallest amount, she’ll have done all right. 

It’s why she chose to do it here: the only place for miles and miles with any kind of elevation. As soon as they make it to the top and hop out of the truck, she hears Tally gasp, and feels a glow of satisfaction. 

“Rae, it’s _beautiful_ ,” Tally breathes.

And she’s right. Chippewa Cession is spread beneath their feet like a field of faraway-glowing stars: so much darkness, but sprinkled through it, the occasional burst of light. Even at this hour, Raelle’s surprised at how many houses are still lit up—at how their light spills forth so strongly into the darkness. Almost as if it doesn’t realize it’s completely surrounded; as if it has no choice but to keep shining on.

This is where she and her mother used to spend their Solstices, and this is what Raelle remembers the most: how their home looks from high above. There’s always something about it that strikes her as brave—something that even in her lowest, angriest years, she couldn’t help but to call _hopeful_. Judging by the reverent silence that’s fallen over her sisters, she’d say they can sense it, too. 

When she looks at Scylla, though, she sees Scylla looking not down but up—at a different field of stars, but one no less spectacular than the one at their feet. 

Raelle goes to stand beside her, bumping their shoulders together lightly. “Told you you’d get to see stars,” she says.

Scylla doesn’t take her gaze off the sky. There’s a gleam in the corner of her eye that Raelle imagines as a reflection of all that light: the lunar glow of the Milky Way, running like a jagged seam through the middle of the sky, and spilling forth from it, billions upon billions of stars. She’s absolutely rapt, her mouth slightly agape as she takes it all in; and Raelle, watching her watch the sky, knows her own face must look exactly the same. 

This was the other reason for coming here tonight. Raelle knows how much Scylla loves the night sky—and how little of it they get to see, between the light pollution from Boston and the cold fluorescents of Fort Salem. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen _this_ many,” Scylla murmurs, and Raelle wraps her arms around her, drawing her close till their faces are pressed together. Till she can tip her head back in line with Scylla’s and see exactly what she does.

They unload all the firewood and, with a considerable amount of sweating and cursing, manage to gather it into something resembling a bonfire. Abigail does the honors—lighting it up with the quickest piece of fire Work Raelle’s ever seen—while the rest of them busy themselves dumping blankets and throw pillows all around it, making the ground as comfortable as possible to sit on. They don’t have any garlands, but Raelle has a battery-operated string of Christmas lights which she loops around the perimeter of their makeshift camp; and for provisions, there are thermoses full of hot apple cider, and a flask of Cession moonshine Raelle slipped in the pocket of her coat before leaving the house.

“Maybe go easy, though,” she adds as she passes it off to Abigail. “That stuff’s strong enough to strip paint.” 

Abigail rolls her eyes and doses her cider liberally. To her credit, her face only twists up for a second before she swallows it down. 

“ _That’s_ the worst you’ve got?” she says, a little hoarsely.

Raelle just laughs and raises her thermos in a toast. “You did good, Bells,” she admits, shaking her head and taking an equally punishing sip. 

They pass the flask around a couple more times (Raelle watches Tally surreptitiously tip her share out on the ground at her feet) and then settle into their pillows, basking in the steady warmth of the bonfire. Raelle’s already experiencing a pleasant buzz from the alcohol; she leans her head against Scylla’s shoulder, and Scylla wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her even closer.

“Next year we should bring music,” she mumbles into Scylla’s shirt.

“Next year we should bring _Henry_ ,” Abigail says, her face the picture of innocence.

Tally, predictably, sputters around her cider and gives Abigail a look. This is an old routine between the two of them, but she still acts surprised and affronted that Abigail’s brought it up. “ _Stop_ , Abi,” she says, but they can all see the flush on her face; and despite her protest, there’s a pleased note in her voice that makes Raelle grin against Scylla’s shoulder.

For the past few months, Tally’s been working as a liaison to the newly-formed civilian peacekeeping force. Henry—a sweet, awkward boy with big doe eyes that follow her everywhere—has been her chief point of contact within the force. Tally insists there’s nothing between them, but privately, Raelle and Abigail have agreed: that the amount of time they spend together cannot possibly be strictly business. Or at least, not for very much longer. 

“We’re _friends_ ,” Tally protests, so feebly that even Scylla makes a dubious sound in her throat. “Honestly, Abigail. Worry about your own love life.”

Abigail snorts and takes another sip of her spiked cider. “I’ll worry about that when there’s something _to_ worry about.” 

She sounds almost wistful. Out of all of them, she’s had the hardest time adjusting to the end of the war, and all the changes that have come with it. Raelle figures it’s to be expected; Abigail’s whole life has been built around something that doesn’t exist anymore. She’s not surprised that Abigail doesn’t know exactly what she wants. If anything, it’s astonishing that any of them _do_.

Impulsively, she presses a clumsy kiss to Scylla’s shoulder. It isn’t lost on her, just how lucky she is: to not only know what she wants—to _always_ have known—but, after everything they’ve been through, to have gotten to keep her.

Scylla glances down at her with a bemused expression. “You’re drunk,” she says delightedly. She sounds a little high-spirited herself. Compared to the rest of them, she’s barely touched her cider, but with Scylla, it doesn’t take much. Raelle finds this hopelessly endearing.

“M’not,” she replies, muffling her words against Scylla’s shoulder so she can’t be accused of slurring them. “Just love you.” 

Scylla flicks her on the nose, but the smile on her face is tender. “Drunk,” she repeats; it rolls off her tongue like a term of endearment. 

Abigail stands up (somewhat unsteadily, Raelle thinks) and lifts her thermos high over her head. “I’ve said it before,” she declares, with the gravitas of one giving a formal military address. “The two of you are _disgusting_.” 

She punctuates this statement with a long swig of her cider. Raelle grins and shakes her head, but Tally—who, from where she’s sitting, can’t see the glitter of mischief in Abigail’s eyes—kicks her in the back of the leg to make her sit back down. 

“Be _nice_ ,” she admonishes. “It’s _Solstice_.”

Abigail snorts at that. “Does Solstice mean I have to be okay with their PDA?”

“ _No_ ,” Tally says patiently, as if speaking to a child. “You’re supposed to think about new beginnings. About welcoming the light into _all_ aspects of your life.” She looks at all of them earnestly, one by one before turning back to Abigail. “And, yeah, it means you have to be nice.” 

The silence that settles over them after that feels somehow heavy—but not, Raelle thinks, as she drowsily settles her head back on Scylla’s shoulder, a bad kind of heavy. The kind of silence, rather, that she can sink comfortably into: that she can burrow in, as she watches the firelight throw flickering shadows across her sisters’ faces. As she presses herself into the warmth of the girl she loves, and thinks about how, in just a few hours’ time, a brand-new sun will be born.

There are bigger thoughts, she knows, lurking just behind these. Bigger questions and harder answers. She can see hints of them playing across her sisters’ faces, and in the hard set of Scylla’s jaw. But none of it, she thinks, is bad. At least, not right now. 

It’s Abigail who finally breaks the silence. “I don’t know what that means,” she admits

Tally jumps in, teasing: “See, being _nice_ is when—”

“I _know_ what being nice is, Tally.” Abigail’s gaze is locked on the fire, and her voice is so quiet—so small and exposed—that Raelle knows she’s being serious. “I mean, all that other stuff you said.”

“What, about welcoming the light?” Tally’s apparently realized the same thing, because her voice, when she speaks now, is contrite. Raelle sees her reach across and grab hold of Abigail’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“Yeah.” Abigail fidgets with her thermos, drumming her fingernails lightly against the side of it. “I’m not sure what the light _is_ ,” she says, in a voice gone so soft, Raelle has to strain to hear her over the snap and crackle of the fire. “It’s like, how can I welcome it if I don’t even know what _it_ is?”

And Raelle understands. Of course she does. It’s a brave new world out there, and none of them has any more than the vaguest idea of what to do with it. In this season of new beginnings, she’s not even really sure herself what a new beginning looks like—nor even what she _wants_ it to look like. She has Scylla and her sisters, and her dad and Byron and Glory and the rest; and all of that is so, so _much_ , an embarrassment of riches, but beyond it, she doesn’t really know. 

“Well, duh,” Tally surprises them all by saying. She shakes her head and smiles, but she’s not poking fun. “Of course you know what the light is.” 

When all three of them stare blankly back at her, she waves her thermos around in an expansive gesture (a little tipsy herself, by Raelle’s estimation). “It’s _us_ ,” she says, as if they’re all missing something obvious. “It’s _this_.”

There’s silence again, this time heavier than the first. Delicately, Abigail says, “Yeah, but—”

“No,” Tally interrupts, brushing her off with a wave of her hand. “Everything else, that’ll come in its time. We have each other. We’re together. All _four_ of us.” She nods in Scylla’s direction, and Raelle feels more than she hears the way Scylla’s breath catches at being included. “That’s a pretty good start, don’t you think?”

Raelle can’t say a word to that. Just lifts her thermos in Tally’s direction and takes another sip; after a beat, Abigail and Scylla follow her lead. 

When the stars have finally all winked out above them, and the sky is pale and hazy with the oncoming dawn, they get up and shake out their stiff, cold limbs. Scylla whispers a seed over their thermoses to warm up the dregs of their cider, and they all go and stand together to watch the sun rise: the first light of the newborn sun pushing up through the earth, streaking the clouds overhead with shades of orange and pink that seem, in the cold, gray dead of winter, so impossibly bright. It is, Raelle thinks, a kind of magic all its own: all that light, and the four of them awake to see it. Silent and enthralled in the early-morning stillness, and ready, _so_ ready, to welcome it back. 

Scylla comes up behind her and threads her arms around Raelle’s shoulders, drawing her in close. “Happy Solstice,” she whispers, lips cold against Raelle’s ear.

And as Raelle sinks back into her arms, letting the rays of a brand-new sun reach out and touch her face for the first time, she thinks that Tally might have undersold it a bit. If this is a _pretty good start_ , it’s already so much better than anything she ever imagined.

~*~

They’re all slumped around the breakfast table a few hours later, feigning interest in bowls of cereal none of them really have the energy to eat, when Tally suddenly jerks bolt upright in her chair.

“Mr. _Collar_ ,” she says, in such a scandalized tone that Raelle instinctively lifts her head off the table to look at her dad. Edwin, for his part, is frozen in place, with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. The look he’s giving Tally is slightly concerned, but mostly just confused.

Tally gestures frantically in the direction of the living room, as if whatever’s the matter ought to be obvious. “You don’t have a _tree!”_

Everyone except Raelle visibly relaxes at that; Abigail actually tips her head back against the back of her chair and mutters, “ _Shit_ , Tal.” Even Scylla, when Raelle slants a look in her direction, is fighting off a little smile. Because even though Tally’s being completely serious—or as serious as someone _can_ be while wearing a damn _Santa hat_ at eight o’clock in the morning—there’s something about her righteous indignation (over a Christmas tree, no less) that’s impossible not to find endearing.

At least, Raelle _would_ find it endearing, if she wasn’t stuck on the fact that it’s three days till Christmas and _her house has no tree_.

Edwin swallows his mouthful of cereal and makes a face that tells Raelle there’s more bad news incoming. “Yeah,” he says apologetically. “We had one, years back, but it just up and fell apart, couple Christmases ago. Been meaning to get around to replacing it, but, well.” He shrugs. “Guess I just never did.”

“So we need a tree,” Tally says, as if it’s as simple as that. She turns an imploring gaze on Raelle. “Where do we get one?” 

“Don’t you just, like, go into the woods and chop one down?” Abigail asks. She sounds genuinely confused, like Tally and Raelle are making this whole thing more complicated than it needs to be. Which, _again_ , Raelle might find hilarious, if this were not a _genuine crisis_. 

She’s no expert on Christmas—at this point, Tally’s probably got her beat on sheer enthusiasm alone—but she’s pretty sure of this much: the _most_ basic tenet is that there has to be a tree.

“Sure,” Scylla interrupts, barely concealing a smirk behind her second cup of coffee. “Go ahead, Bellweather. Chop down a tree. Tell us how it goes.”

Her sarcasm’s clearly lost on Abigail, who scowls and mutters, “Why’s that _my_ job?” 

Edwin—who’s clearly struggling to keep up with all the banter at his breakfast table—looks from Abigail to Scylla in mild bewilderment. “I think you can just get ’em at the hardware store,” he says. 

“Not two days before Christmas Eve, you can’t.” Raelle’s only half checked in to this conversation, busy doing frantic mental calculations. The hardware store in town will be sold out, but maybe not the one further up the county road; and if not there, she could swear there used to be a live tree farm in Little Rock…

Edwin leans back in his chair and looks thoughtful for a moment. “You might have some luck at the five and dime,” he says, in a tone that lets Raelle know he’s not done making suggestions, and that she probably won’t like what’s coming next. “But if not…”

He trails off, tipping his head meaningfully in Abigail’s direction.

It takes Raelle a second to catch on, but when she does, she stares at her dad in open disbelief. 

“You’re not serious,” she manages.

Edwin shrugs carelessly. He’s clearly enjoying himself, which, on the one hand, always makes Raelle ridiculously happy to see; but on the other hand, _goddamn_ him—

“Your choice, kid.” Edwin carefully folds up the newspaper and stands, brushing invisible crumbs off the front of his work shirt. “You want a Christmas tree…”

He raises both eyebrows at her and nods toward Abigail again before shuffling off to the bedroom, He’s practically whistling as he goes. Leaving Raelle, of course, with everyone staring at her.

“Okay,” Abigail says slowly. “What the hell was all _that_ about?”

Raelle turns to Scylla and sees her openly grinning, not even bothering to disguise her glee. She sighs heavily and rubs at her temples—the alcohol and the sleepless night have, _of course_ , waited till now to properly catch up to her—before answering:

“We’re gonna go into the woods and chop one down.”

~*~

“There is _no way_ this is legal,” Tally says for the third time. 

“No,” Scylla agrees, sounding far too pleased about it. “No, I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”

Abigail squints up into the boughs of the tall, sparse Virginia pine looming over the truck. “There is _no way_ we’re pulling this off,” she pronounces, as if that settles the matter. “I mean, are any of these even going to fit in the front door?” 

Raelle—who’s rummaging around in the weatherproof box in the back of her dad’s truck—pokes her head out just long enough to say, “A little less negativity would be _great_ right about now, guys.” Then dives right back in, still in search of the axe her dad promised was in there.

They’re thirty miles outside the town limits, in a wooded area near the Virginia state line—where the land is more dense with trees, and there are fewer towns full of prying eyes. Even so, Raelle wouldn’t be surprised if this ends up being some kind of state park—if they end up getting caught and fined out the ass for chopping down a priceless Virginia pine or something. But, as her dad already pointed out, their choices are limited, and Christmas is just days away, and she seems to remember promising her girl a nearly-perfect one. _All_ her girls, she reminds herself, as she narrowly avoids slicing her hand open on the blade edge of something sharp she can’t see. All of this is for all of them. Raelle knows she wouldn’t bother if it was anyone else.

It’s grown considerably warmer since sunrise, but it’s still cold enough that Abigail’s hopping restlessly from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. “Remind me why we need an _axe_ for this?” she calls up to Raelle in the truck bed. “I’m, like, ninety percent sure we know a seed that’d do the job.”

“Great idea, Abi.” Raelle loses her grip just then on the lid of the weatherproof box, but before it collapses on her head, Scylla appears at her side as if out of thin air, propping it up for her. Raelle mouths a quick _thank you_ in her direction before adding, “We should _broadcast_ the fact that we’re chopping a tree down. _And_ let everyone know we’re witches, while we’re at it.”

Abigail makes a derisive sound in her throat. “I’m sure we’re not the only witches around.” 

“In these parts? You’d be surprised.” Raelle finally spots the handle of the axe and whips it triumphantly out of the box, raising it above her head like a scepter. Abigail instantly groans with relief and turns toward the forest, Tally hot on her heels, but Scylla stays close, grinning and mock-applauding Raelle’s performance.

“It’s a good look,” she remarks, offering Raelle a hand as she clambers out of the bed of the truck. “The whole lumberjack thing you’ve got going on.” 

“Seriously?” Raelle accepts her hand, but doesn’t let it go once she’s back on the ground, preferring to thread her fingers through Scylla’s as they follow Abigail and Tally into the trees. “The _axe_ gets you hot?” 

Scylla ducks her head in close, even though Abigail and Tally are too far ahead by now to overhear. “ _You_ get me hot,” she murmurs, breath warm against Raelle’s ear. “Always.” 

And if it were anyone else—anyone but Scylla—Raelle thinks she might be embarrassed at how swiftly and devastatingly those words take effect on her. It’s like a bolt of lightning moving through her body: every nerve suddenly electrified, while at the same time shocked to stillness. Her expression must be equally struck dumb, because Scylla’s grin instantly widens into that cocky half-smile that Raelle loves: lips quirked up on just the one side of her mouth and a devilish gleam in her eye. 

Raelle’s never been able to resist kissing that smile right off her mouth.

She pauses just long enough to make sure Abigail and Tally are still far ahead of them before she grabs Scylla by the collar of her jacket and shoves her up against a tree. 

A delicate sprinkling of pine needles instantly falls on top of them, shaken loose by the force of their bodies hitting the base of the tree. Scylla lets out a startled laugh and tries to brush them off Raelle’s collar, but Raelle really, really does not give a shit about pine needles right now. She grabs Scylla’s wrists out of midair and pins them next to her head, up against the rough bark of the tree, and kisses her hard, pressing their bodies flush together. Scylla gasps into her mouth—like she’s actually _surprised_ , like she didn’t essentially _orchestrate_ all this—before kissing her back in kind, shaking her hands free and slipping them underneath Raelle’s jacket till her cold hands meet bare skin. 

It’s the kind of kissing you could lose yourself in—the kind of kissing that makes you forget where you are, or why you’re there, or that your sisters are going to notice you’re missing any minute now. It has Raelle so completely fucking _gone_ that without thinking, she slips her thigh between Scylla’s legs, pressing against her center through three layers of clothing. Scylla gasps again, this time in a ragged sort of way that sends another jolt of electricity straight down Raelle’s spine; her hands flail for a moment, struggling to reorient themselves on Raelle’s hips, and in the process, she brushes dangerously close to Raelle’s coat pocket. 

“ _Raelle_ ,” she giggles. She sounds like she’s trying to be stern, but it’s ruined by the way she can’t seem to catch her breath. Her eyes are bright and unfocused, like she actually _is_ drunk from kissing. “Not here,” she finally manages.

Raelle knows—from a _lot_ of experience—that Scylla doesn’t totally mean it. If she wasn't already intimately familiar with Scylla’s exhibitionist streak, there’s also the coy note in her voice that suggests she’s open to debate. Ordinarily, it would make Raelle shake her head and laugh—or at the very least lean in to kiss Scylla again, even though she’s already breathless. Even though she knows there’s a very good chance of Abigail and Tally interrupting them this time, if they pick up where they left off. 

But she doesn’t do either of those things. _Can’t_ , in fact: the moment Scylla’s hand brushed up against her pocket, it’s like Raelle simply forgot how to move. She’s frozen in place, with Scylla pressed so close against her, Raelle can _feel_ how fast her heart’s racing. In the whole still, silent world, it might as well be the _only_ thing still in motion.

It’s happening again: her traitorous brain buzzing _why not do it here? Why not do it now?_

With Abigail and Tally still out of earshot, it’s quiet around them: the lovely, frozen hush of early winter, broken up only by the small snapping sounds of twigs breaking under their boots. It’s like they’re the only two people on earth right now, which, cliché as it sounds, is the way Raelle _always_ feels when she’s with Scylla. And even though there’s pine needles stabbing her neck where they’ve slipped down the back of her coat—even though she’s a single misstep away from tripping on the handle of the axe, which lies abandoned on the ground between them—there’s something about the slant of Scylla’s smile, and the flush in her cheeks, and the pine needles caught in her hair that makes Raelle think that _now_ is actually the moment she’s been waiting for. 

A light breeze passes through the boughs of the tree, tossing more pine needles down on their heads. A stray curl falls into Scylla’s eyes, and Raelle suddenly remembers how to use her limbs, reaching over to tuck the hair behind Scylla’s ear. Scylla looks up at her, then, with such pure, naked adoration on her face that Raelle finds she can’t even remember her original plan anymore.

“Scyl—” she starts to say; but before she can get any further—

“I _told_ you!” 

Tally’s triumphant voice rings through the air sharp as a gunshot, and suddenly, there she is: poking her head around the wide trunk of the tree and grinning brightly at both of them, utterly unaffected by the fact that they’re still on top of each other. (Which, given the kinds of things Tally’s accidentally witnessed, might _not_ be something to get weird about.) 

“Told you,” she repeats, still sounding terribly pleased with herself. Abigail appears at her side, looking decidedly less enthused. “I said you guys were probably making out against the best tree—”

“And _I_ said I did not want that tree,” Abigail interrupts dryly.

“—and I was right!” Tally looks adoringly up at the uppermost boughs of the tree, a good six feet above their heads. Then swivels her attention back to Raelle and Scylla. “Don’t you think? It’s got nice full branches.”

Raelle doesn’t remember, at the moment, how to form words—stunned from the kissing and the weight of what she almost just did—so Scylla answers for them both. “Sure,” she says, calmly disentangling herself from Raelle. “This whole side over here’s looking dead, though.” 

Tally follows her gaze, face falling a bit when she sees Scylla’s right. “Oh, I didn’t see!” Then, hopeful: “Is there some kind of Necro Work you can use on that?” 

“Necro Work doesn’t really—”

“This tree’s like fifteen feet tall, Tal,” Raelle interrupts. The words come out more harshly than she means for them to, but the ire is all directed at herself. She can’t believe how close she just came, _again_ , to ruining the surprise. 

She’s quickly losing faith in her own ability to hold out till Christmas Eve.

She throws an apologetic glance Tally’s way, and is met with Tally giving her a funny look—which melts all too quickly into a knowing grin. 

“You’re right,” Tally says, not even _trying_ to keep a note of smugness out of her voice. “I didn’t think of that. Guess we’d better find one that’ll fit through the front door?”

“Let’s do that,” Abigail grouses. She’s also giving Raelle a _look_ , albeit a very unimpressed one. “Otherwise we’re all gonna freeze to death.”

Tally bumps her shoulder reprovingly. “Dramatic,” she pronounces; and then, to Raelle’s astonishment, she grabs hold of Scylla’s arm. 

“Divide and conquer!” she says cheerfully, as if that explains everything. As if Scylla isn’t looking at her with a mix of apprehension and confusion that could almost be comical. “We split up, we find a tree, and the loser has to make dinner tonight.”

Abigail’s also looking at Tally as if this time she’s lost her mind for real. “Let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “You and _Scylla_ are going Christmas tree hunting.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Tally says, matter-of-factly. “Raelle’s been hogging her. It’s my turn.” 

It’s so obviously a deflection—an attempt to prevent another premature proposal—that Raelle’s _sure_ Scylla’s got to be at least a little bit suspicious. At least until she looks over and sees that Scylla’s face is absolutely _scarlet_ , with a pleased smile lurking in the corners of her mouth. 

She’s thrilled to be singled out like this, and that makes it incredibly difficult for Raelle to keep a smile off her own face.

So she doesn’t argue the plan. She says, “Come on, Bells,” and grabs hold of Abigail’s arm, steering her in the opposite direction from which they came. “Better go do everyone a favor.”

“Do everyone a _favor?”_ Abigail echoes warily as she follows. 

“Not putting _you_ in charge of dinner.” 

~*~

In the end, it’s Tally who finds them the perfect tree—or at least, a tree which she repeatedly _insists_ is perfect. By that point, everyone else’s teeth are chattering too hard for them to argue. Despite the bright sunshine spilling through the trees, the air is growing steadily colder as the day wears on, though this, too, seems to delight Tally to no end: while Abigail and Raelle maneuver around the tree, trying to find the best angle to chop it down, Tally stands off to the side with Scylla and positively _beams_.

“The air even _smells_ like snow, doesn’t it?” she says brightly. 

Raelle’s got the upper half of her body wedged beneath the tree, and a collection of dead pine needles falling in her eyes. When she tries to crane her neck up high enough to see Tally, she ends up bumping it against the trunk of the tree instead. 

“Tal,” she sighs, slumping back into the dirt in defeat. “Do you see a _single_ cloud in that sky?”

But Tally’s not so easily deterred. “I didn’t say it was gonna snow _right now_ ,” she insists stubbornly. She pauses, and in that pause, Raelle hears Scylla giggle softly. She imagines the two of them—Tally with her arm still threaded through Scylla’s—sharing a conspiratorial look, and suddenly, she’s significantly less annoyed with the tree. 

“I just said the air smelled like it,” Tally adds, all confidence. “You watch. Bet before the week’s over I prove you wrong.”

Raelle’s prevented from making any kind of retort by the sudden appearance of the axe, which lands in the dirt dangerously close to her head. Abigail peers down between the branches at her, uncertain.

“You _sure_ you know what you’re doing with that?” she asks. As if she didn’t just practically fling the damn thing at Raelle’s head. 

In lieu of a response, Raelle pulls herself back upright and gives the axe an experimental swing against a weak-looking section of the trunk. It bites in with a pleasingly solid _thunk_. 

“Pretty sure,” Raelle says, and when she looks up, Abigail’s grinning back at her. 

The first cut ends up being the easiest, though. In the end, it takes several more haphazard swings—one of which misses and lands on a rock, nearly breaking the axe—plus a fair bit of cursing, and (Raelle suspects) some sly Work from Scylla or Tally to finish the job. But they do manage, in the end, to fell the tree without making any kind of scene. It takes all four of them, after that, to haul it back to the truck, but by the time they get it there and tie it to the bed, they’re all a little giddy about it: flushed and triumphant, like they’ve pulled off some kind of major, high-stakes op. 

The high carries them all the way back to the Collar house, where it takes all four of them once again to get the tree in the front door (which Raelle swears wasn’t _always_ this narrow). By the time they’ve managed to wrestle it into place by the fire, the prospect of also _decorating_ it—dragging the boxes out of the hall closet and sorting through everything—seems far too daunting to consider. Still, Raelle’s tempted. The tree’s nice ( _perfect_ , Tally keeps insisting; she dragged Edwin out of the kitchen just to tell him so), but without any kind of decorations, it feels….unfinished.

She feels Scylla’s gaze on her, and when she looks up to meet it, Scylla nods once, like she knows exactly what Raelle’s thinking.

“Let’s at least do the lights,” she says. “We can save the decorations. Do them Christmas Eve.” She shrugs, almost as if she’s embarrassed, and adds quietly: “It’s not really a _Christmas_ tree without lights, is it?” 

Raelle can’t argue with that. And so they haul the box with the Christmas lights out of the closet and set to work: Scylla on the sofa patiently picking the tangled stands apart while Raelle throws them in haphazard loops around the tree. Eventually, the tree starts to look less like something they illegally chopped down and dragged in from the woods, and more like—well. More like a Christmas tree.

Or maybe it just looks like a tree she’s tossed some lights around. Raelle can’t be sure. Truth be told, she’s gauging how good a job she’s done by the light in Scylla’s eyes when she looks at the tree.

“It’s looking good,” she says, catching on to the way Raelle’s staring at her. 

“Just _good?”_ Raelle pretends to be offended. 

Scylla’s grin widens. “Perfect,” she amends. “Tally was right after all.” 

Tally groans in agreement from Edwin’s easy chair, where she’s been dozing on and off this whole time; apparently, even her inexhaustible Christmas spirit has its limits. Abigail’s already disappeared into the kitchen, trying, Raelle imagines, to figure out what the hell to make for dinner (and also, how the hell to make it). 

Raelle knows she should probably go try to help her. Or at the very least go take a nap; she’s been feeling her eyelids start to droop since before they even made it back home. The sofa—where Scylla’s currently curled up in a nest of blankets, her head starting to loll sleepily onto her shoulder—has been calling her name since she walked in the front door; but there’s still one more thing left to do. 

Somewhere—in this box or one of the others—is the star for the top of the tree.

Raelle sifts first through the nearly-empty box of Christmas lights; when she can’t find it there, she sighs in resignation, glances at Scylla (now fully asleep on the sofa) and goes to get the rest of the boxes from the closet. She’s still moving them back and forth when Tally finally disappears back into the basement—is riffling fruitlessly through her fourth one when the noises from the kitchen fade from Abigail cursing and slamming pots to an equally disturbing silence. She’s right on the cusp of giving up when at last, it turns up in the very last of the boxes: the twelve-pointed star that’s sat at the top of their Christmas tree for as long as Raelle can remember. 

When she finally wrestles it on to the topmost branch and plugs it into the lights, it’s like something about the whole room changes. Before, it was just the tree that looked festive; now, it’s like the whole house has been bathed in soft, white-gold light, the star stretching its beams out to every corner of the room. Suddenly, it feels real in a way it never did, all those years at Fort Salem: an almost childlike excitement, looking at the tree and knowing that Christmas is only days away. 

Which makes Raelle think again of the ring still buried in her coat pocket. The reality of the tree before her also means it’s almost time. Her plan is suddenly, terrifyingly _solid_ , in a way it’s never been before. She thinks it might have been easier, when it was little more than a daydream she was worried about getting right. 

Not, of course, that she isn’t _still_ worried about getting it right.

She’s too exhausted to think about it for very long, though, and after a moment, she drags a quilt off the back of her dad’s chair and climbs with it onto the sofa. Scylla stirs a little, jostled by the movement; when she sees it’s Raelle, though, she sleepily reaches her arms out for her, pulling her against her chest. 

Raelle lets herself be pulled—lets herself fall into the warmth of Scylla’s arms around her, and the blanket that she pulls over both of them before burying her head in Scylla’s neck. She feels Scylla’s lips press lightly against the crown of her head, and her hand slip under the back of Raelle’s shirt, a warm palm stroking down her spine.

“ _Now_ it’s perfect,” she hears Scylla mumble drowsily; but just before Raelle lets sleep take her over, she catches herself thinking that Scylla doesn’t mean the tree. 

~*~

She’d hoped—perhaps naïvely—to be able to sleep in the next morning. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, but, barring another Christmas tree emergency, they don’t have any engagements. And what with the whirlwind that the past few days have been, Raelle’s beginning to think she deserves a lazy morning in bed. _Needs_ , almost, to wake up late, wrap her arms around Scylla, and go right back to sleep. 

This is what she’d hoped for, anyway. What she gets instead is waking up to Tally’s face about an inch from hers, staring at her so intently, it’s like she thinks she can wake Raelle just by concentrating hard enough.

Which, of course, makes Raelle just about jump out of her skin. “ _Jesus_ , Tal!” she yelps, forgetting to be quiet for Scylla’s sake. “What the _hell?”_

“Sorry,” Tally whispers, not sounding especially repentant. “But you guys have been sleeping _forever_.”

From somewhere within her burrow of blankets, Scylla moans in that adorable, sleepy way she does whenever she’s woken up too soon. She reaches blindly for Raelle’s hand, and Raelle grabs hold of her distractedly, squinting at the clock on her bedside table as she does.

“Tally,” she says, struggling to maintain a calm, even tone. “It’s not even fucking eight o’clock yet.”

“No,” Tally agrees readily. “But you _promised_ we’d go ice skating, and you said if we didn’t get there early enough…” 

Raelle groans loudly and flops back down on her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut as if she can will herself back to sleep. When this inevitably fails, she cracks a single eyelid back open and sees Tally still looming over the bed, looking down at her expectantly. 

“ _Well?”_ she demands. “Are we going or not?” 

Raelle opens her mouth to reply—some variation of _no_ , probably—but, to her surprise, Scylla cuts her off, addressing Tally before she can.

“Go get Abigail, then,” she yawns, disentangling her limbs from Raelle’s. The loss of her body heat makes Raelle groan again, this time in protest. “I’ll deal with this one.”

Raelle can just picture the skeptical look on Tally’s face. “When you say _deal with her_ , you don’t mean—?”

“Tally,” Scylla interrupts. “Leave.”

“Yep, mm-hm, got it.” 

Raelle hears her scurry out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her. She keeps her eyes shut tight, though—right up until she suddenly feels the warm press of Scylla’s mouth against hers, and opens her eyes just in time to see Scylla’s looking back at her.

“Morning, beautiful,” Scylla teases, giving the words an exaggerated Cession drawl.

“S’my line,” Raelle grouses, trying to pull her back in for another kiss. “And I don’t sound like that.”

Scylla makes a dubious sound in the back of her throat but acquiesces, leaning in to kiss her again. This time, Raelle’s ready for her, threading her fingers through Scylla’s hair to hold her in place.

“I know what you’re doing,” she murmurs against Scylla’s lips when they both come up for air.

Scylla ticks both of her eyebrows up at that. “And what _am_ I doing?” she asks.

While Raelle tries to unscramble her thoughts long enough to answer, Scylla starts pressing slow, gentle kisses all over her face—her forehead and eyelids, her cheeks and the line of her scar. She seems utterly unhurried, as if they really _do_ have all morning to laze around in bed; but as sleepy and loved-up and preoccupied as she is, Raelle knows a distraction technique when she sees it.

“You’re trying to get me out of bed,” she protests; but weakly, because, for all that she knows she’s being distracted, she also really, _really_ doesn’t want Scylla to stop. Especially when she feels Scylla graze her teeth along that spot just under Raelle’s ear—the one that never fails to make her knees buckle. 

Scylla huffs a laugh close to her ear. “And here I thought that doing something nice for Tally was enough to get you up,” she teases.

“Yep, that’s me,” Raelle agrees, reluctantly pulling herself into a sitting position to prove her point. “Love doing nice things for Tally.” She’s not really joking—for all her grumbling, she was never _actually_ going to tell Tally no. But she can see Scylla fighting to keep a smile off her face, and so she adds, “Wouldn’t say no to a bit more incentive, though.” 

The corner of Scylla’s mouth pulls up in a devilish little smile. “Is that right?” she says airily, moving so she’s out of Raelle’s reach. 

“S _cyl_ ,” Raelle whines, and the smile on Scylla’s face only grows wider.

“You wanted incentive,” she insists cheerfully, grabbing one of Raelle’s discarded sweatshirts off the floor and tugging it over her head. “This is an incentive.” 

And she breezes right out of the room without a backward glance, leaving Raelle slightly dumbstruck in the bed behind her. After a moment, she shakes her head and reluctantly shakes loose the covers where they’re pooled around her waist. The heater’s still working—its thrum audible in the quiet of the room—but it’s cold nonetheless, a fact that makes her glance warily out her window before getting up. 

When she looks up at the door that Scylla’s left ajar, she sees Abigail standing in the hall, watching her. She only looks about half awake herself—dressed in one of Tally’s ugly Christmas sweaters over a pair of pajama pants and lethargically chewing on a piece of toast. But when she catches Raelle’s eye, she snorts and shakes her head.

“Could you _be_ more whipped?” she asks around her mouthful of toast.

Raelle just rolls her eyes at her and starts hunting on the floor for her favorite lacrosse sweatshirt. The early hour, she thinks, is bad enough all on its own. No need to also tell Abigail she’s right. 

~*~

By the time everyone’s had breakfast and made themselves presentable—presentable according to Tally, that is, which means everyone’s been forced into Christmas sweaters—the morning’s half gone, and Edwin is already comfortably settled in his chair by the fire. When the four of them come trooping back upstairs from the basement, already overheated between their coats and the Christmas sweaters, he regards them with a kind of pitying bemusement. When Raelle invites him to come along with them, he actually chokes back a laugh.

“Ah, no thanks, kid,” he says, collecting himself just in time. “S’too cold out there for me.”

Raelle would dearly love to interject that it’s too cold out there for _her_ , too. For her, and for the Cession in general this time of year; normally, the temperature doesn’t start to really plunge till January. But the thermometer hanging outside the kitchen window has been stuck on thirty-eight since Raelle got out of bed—a number, she thinks dismally, that only someone truly crazy would want to venture out into.

As if to prove her point, Tally chides, “You’re no fun,” and shakes her head at Edwin like she’s bitterly disappointed. 

Edwin plays along with it, shaking his own head regretfully. “I know, I know,” he sighs. “You all go have fun, though.” He catches Raelle’s eye and winks. “You girls must be so used to Boston winters, cold isn’t even that bad, hm?”

Raelle glowers at him just long enough to let him know she isn’t buying his _aw-shucks-you-young-folks-go-have-fun_ act. He’s sitting before a roaring fire, with the Christmas tree lit up and a steaming mug of coffee warming his hands; easy for _him_ to talk about the cold not being so bad. 

She refuses to admit that, after all the winters she’s spent at Fort Salem, spending four _days_ back home has made her soft to the cold again.

As soon as they step out the front door, though, that cold rolls over them in full force. Raelle’s briefly vindicated when she sees Scylla, Tally, and Abigail all shrink back from it, deep into the recesses of their coats; they’ve seen as many Fort Salem winters as she has, but _they’re_ obviously still stunned by a little Cession chill. It’s a short-lived victory, though, because the cold _is_ stunning: so rigid it almost takes her breath away. It seems impossible that it’s still above freezing—unthinkable that, in this bone-jarring chill, it’s still too warm for the pond in town to freeze over on its own. 

For a moment, Raelle toys with the idea of taking them all into town, after all. It’s cold enough that they might be able to get away with it; and it’s certain to feel more Christmassy downtown than at the secluded skating pond, which no one but the Collars even _knows_ about. 

But almost as quickly as the idea pops into her head, she discards it, because another, better one takes its place as soon as she notices Scylla. While Tally and Abigail are still burrowed deep in their hats and hoods, Scylla’s got her face tipped up toward the cloud-scudded sky; and the look Raelle sees on her face is remarkable. It’s not quite joy—though Raelle thinks it could be mistaken as such—but rather an almost reverent expectation. Like something wonderful hasn’t happened yet, but she’s utterly convinced that it _will_.

She looks, Raelle thinks, like Tally does, when her face is lit up with the prospect of snow.

For a moment, all she can do is stare. She can’t figure out exactly what’s making Scylla look like that, and the thought of interrupting her long enough to ask seems akin to a sacrilege. But thinking of Tally and snow is what gives her the idea. 

And in order to pull it off, they’re going to need to be _far_ away from civilians.

They pile into the truck with several pairs of the Collars’ old ice skates slung over their shoulders, balancing cups of already-lukewarm coffee on their laps. As soon as Raelle gets the engine running, she cranks up the heat as high as it goes, and Scylla—whom nobody really tries that hard to fight for the shotgun seat—bangs her fist against the radio until it starts coughing out a staticky rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Tally, predictably, is thrilled by this. 

“It’s perfect,” she says, indicating first the radio, thene the four of them in their ridiculous sweaters. Her grin in the rearview mirror is positively blinding—so wide it looks like it ought to hurt. “We’re so _festive_ , you guys. I almost can’t stand it.”

“I _know_ I can’t,” Abigail says wryly, but Raelle can see that she’s smiling, too. It makes her think of the look on Scylla’s face a moment ago—that breathless wonder, at what she still doesn’t know—but when she sneaks a glimpse at Scylla now, all trace of that momentary rapture is gone. She just looks content, in that quiet way of hers; and when she sees Raelle peeking at her, her lips curve up into a soft, sweet smile.

Which, Raelle thinks, is its own kind of miraculous. 

The skating pond is ten miles outside of town proper, sheltered from view of the road by a little copse of trees. They park the truck where it won’t be easily seen and spill back out into the cold, but now, it no longer feels sepulchral. Call it the coffee finally kicking in, or the excitement of finally going skating; call it Christmas magic, or, (more likely) the twenty minutes they just spent trapped in a car with Tally’s infectious enthusiasm. 

Whatever the reason, when Scylla wraps her arm around Raelle’s waist, and leans into her as they make their way through the trees and the dead, gray underbrush, Raelle could swear she hardly feels the cold at all.

The pond on the other side of the trees is smaller than Raelle remembers—whether because it’s been such a long time, or because she was smaller then, too. But it’s big enough for the four of them, and so she and Tally and Abigail step aside to let Scylla do the honors. While they watch, she dips her hand into the slate-gray water (impressively without flinching) and chants under her breath, until frost creeps in from the edges of the pond and stitches itself solidly across its surface. 

This is the official reason they can’t go skating at the pond in town: even now, Raelle’s not quite sure how the civilians would take it. The other reason—the idea Raelle’s been tinkering with the whole car ride over—will come into play later. For now, she squats down on the cold, dry ground with Scylla and her sisters and starts to undo the laces on her mother’s old, beat-up skates.

It’s trickier than she remembers, once she’s laced into her skates, to move from solid ground to the surface of the ice. Tally and Abigail seem to have no trouble with it—they’re both experienced skaters, and, what’s more, already seem to have a wordless competition going on—but Scylla can hardly balance upright even before she steps onto the pond. Raelle has to give her a hand up, and hold her by her shoulders till she finds a more even keel.

“Thanks,” Scylla says once she’s finally steady. She’s smiling, but she’s averting her eyes, almost as if she’s embarrassed. Her hand stays on Raelle’s shoulder, holding it in a white-knuckled grip. 

“You okay?” There’s something about the way Scylla won’t meet her eyes that sets off faint alarm bells in the back of Raelle’s head. Something, she suspects, isn’t quite right here; it occurs to her, horribly, that she never actually asked if Scylla was any good at skating. 

But Scylla just waves her off. “Fine,” she says brightly. “Just not very steady on my feet.” 

“Yeah, I can see that.” Raelle gives her a reassuring smile, trying not to look as guilty as she feels. Apparently, it works; after a moment, Scylla’s pasted-on grin relaxes a little. Emboldened, Raelle adds, “Wanna hold my hand?” with a coy wag of her eyebrows, already reaching for her.

Scylla scrunches up her nose in amusement, but lets her hand be taken. “Are you _flirting_ with me, Sergeant Collar?” she asks.

“Only if you’re into it.” While she’s teasing, Raelle gently guides Scylla out onto the pond; Scylla flails practically the minute her blades touch the ice, her hand squeezing Raelle’s bloodless. There’s a look on her face, for a couple unsteady seconds, that’s so absolutely _petrified_ that Raelle feels compelled to hastily add, “Scyl. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

Scylla just grits her teeth and glides out experimentally with her right foot. “I’m fine,” she mutters, even as her balance immediately goes off-kilter, and Raelle has to throw out a hand to keep her upright.

On the other side of the pond, she can hear Tally and Abigail’s laughing—their voices ringing bright and loud through the stillness of the clearing. Tally hollers, “Oh, your ass is _mine_ , Bellweather!” and Raelle risks glancing away from Scylla long enough to see her pursuing Abigail across the pond. The two of them seem lighter than air, their movements suffused with an almost effortless elegance that’s hard to look away from. But more even than that, Raelle thinks: they look _happy_. 

As guilty as she’s starting to feel for bringing them here—for _assuming_ , idiotically, that Scylla would be comfortable skating—watching her sisters skate loops around each other, she can’t quite bring herself to totally regret it. 

She turns back to Scylla only to see that Scylla’s following her gaze, watching Tally and Abigail with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Hey.” Raelle squeezes her hand. “Be here with me, yeah?” 

Scylla turns back to her and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think that’s enough skating for me,” she says, her tone back to that false brightness Raelle hates. “I’m gonna go sit.” 

“Scyl—”

“Please?” Scylla interrupts. She’s teasing now, but Raelle knows what Scylla’s teasing sounds like. She knows her heart’s not fully in it. “I know _you’ve_ got some moves. I wanna see them.” 

Before Raelle can open her mouth to reply—before she can even find the rights words to say—they’re interrupted by the sound of shredding ice as Abigail and Tally glide to a stop in front of them. They’re red-cheeked and slightly breathless from their exertions; Tally’s actually doubled over trying to catch her breath. When she looks up, though, her whole face is glowing with delight.

“The two of you are being, like, _super_ boring right now,” she says. 

Raelle feels rather than sees Scylla flinch at that, and instinctively snaps, “Tal.” But before she can say anything else, she’s cut off by Abigail, who—after giving the two of them a brief appraising—declares, “ _Goddess_ , shitbird, you’re really no good at this at all.”

There’s a beat of confused silence. Raelle’s convinced, for a moment, that Abigail’s talking to Scylla; but no, Abigail’s definitely looking directly at _her_.

“Me?” she says at last. 

“Is there another shitbird here I don’t know about?” Abigail raises both her eyebrows, and then—in a move that actually shocks Raelle speechless—she lightly knocks Raelle’s hand out of Scylla’s and replaces it with her own.

“Clearly,” she continues, as if what she’s just done is the most normal thing in the world, “you’ve never taught anyone how to skate. And that’s fine, but Necro here looks like she’s about to pass out.” To Scylla—in just about the most congenial tone Raelle’s _ever_ heard Abigail use with Scylla—she adds, “Come on. It’s like this. Watch—I’ll guide you—”

She pulls Scylla’s limp right hand onto her own shoulder, making sure it’s steady there before starting to tow her slowly around the perimeter of the pond. She keeps her strokes short and even so that Scylla can easily follow, and, to Raelle’s astonishment—after a few stumbly moments—she does.

Which leaves Raelle with nothing left to do but stand and watch, still utterly beyond words. 

Abigail’s never been totally sold on Scylla the way that Tally is. Even after the whole Spree thing was resolved, their relationship’s been courteous at best, strained at worst. Raelle’s been a little more hopeful about it lately—after their conversation in the car the other night especially—but _a little more hopeful_ hasn’t meant anything like _this_. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” she says at last, words returning to her, as usual, in the most inelegant order possible. 

Tally—who when Raelle glances up at her looks just as comically dumbfounded as Raelle feels—giggles nervously in reply. “Oh, good,” she says. “You see it, too?” 

“I don’t know what I’m seeing.” 

“If _you_ see it, that means we’re not going crazy, right?”

“I’m not sure it does.” Watching Abigail guide her girlfriend around the pond—more patiently, thank you very much, than she _ever_ was with Tally or Raelle, back in their days in Basic—is giving Raelle the weirdest out-of-body sensation. Or maybe that’s just the cold, finally stealing its way under her skin.

Tally makes a dubious sound in her throat. “We could be going crazy together, I guess,” she suggests. “One of those _folie à deux_ thingies.” 

“It’s a goddamn miracle.” Raelle’s voice sounds dazed even to her own ears. “Is _miracle_ the right word?”

Tally shrugs. “I heard somewhere that it’s a good time of year for miracles,” she says. There’s a long pause, and then, in a completely different tone of voice, she adds: “Wanna race to the other side of the pond before this all falls apart?”

And Raelle can’t help it: she laughs. It’s a huge, helpless laugh that seems to echo off of every individual, winter-bare branch on every tree in the clearing, becoming twenty times larger than it was when she started. It makes her feel light enough to simply drift away.

What she says, though, is, “Oh, it’s _on,”_ and pushes off against the ice with all her might. 

They race dizzy circles around one another (and Abigail and Scylla, who are still making their slow way around the perimeter) until they’re completely out of breath, resting with their hands on their knees in the center of the pond. After that, they pick up a much slower pace: criss-crossing over and over the same icy ribbons their skates have already cut through the surface of the pond. As they weave around one another, Raelle watches Scylla and Abigail’s progress out of the corner of her eye, trying not to be obvious about it. From what she can see, there’s already a world of difference—Scylla’s much steadier on her feet than before, though she still moves at a slow, careful pace. 

Season of miracles indeed, Raelle thinks. She tries to catch Abigail’s eye—to give her some indication of how grateful she is—but Abigail’s pointedly ignoring her, skating with her eyes locked forward. _Do not_ , she seems to be saying with the hard set of her shoulders, _make a big deal out of this_.

By the time Raelle remembers her plan, the afternoon is wearing on, and Scylla’s gliding much more smoothly. She waits until Scylla and her sisters are all looking the other way before skating to the center of the pond and whistling for their attention.

“C’mere,” she calls to Scylla, once she’s got her attention. “I wanna show you something.”

For a second, Scylla hesitates. Her skating may have improved since this morning, but she’s kept to the edges of the pond so far—where you can throw yourself on steady ground if you feel like you’re about to fall. But the look on her face passes quickly, and when Abigail comes up behind her to give her a nudge, she’s already slowly pushing off across the center of the pond, eyes locked determinedly on Raelle.

When she gets a little closer, Raelle starts to whisper a seed under her breath. She doesn’t want to distract Scylla with her Work—not when Scylla’s concentrating so hard on not falling—but, as it turns out, distraction is inevitable; because as soon as Tally realizes what’s happening, she whoops in delight, the sound ringing loudly through the trees.

“Rae!” she shouts. Then grunts with impact as Abigail elbows her in the ribs, muttering, “Shut _up_ , Tal.” It doesn’t matter, though. Scylla never falters—not, at least, until she’s about a foot away from where Raelle’s standing, and can throw herself, stumblingly but with intent, into Raelle’s arms.

“Hey, pretty girl,” she laughs, bumping her nose up against Raelle’s. Her eyes are so bright, and the smile on her face is so deliriously happy, Raelle can’t help herself: she picks Scylla up off her feet and swings her around, heedless of the ice beneath them. Scylla yelps with laughter, clinging to Raelle’s shoulders for dear life. 

And all the while, snow falls gently down around them.

They aren’t really supposed to do major storm Work like this anymore. Not, at least, until the world’s natural weather has had a chance to recuperate—to reset, like a broken bone, from all the Work done during the war. Raelle’s even wondered if the strange cold spell today, so unusual for the Cession in December, has got something to do with that. Compared to stories you hear from other parts of the world—tornados wheeling through the Arctic and lightning storms over New York—a bit of unseasonable chill seems tame, though; and anyway, for Scylla (and for Tally, and even Abigail too), Raelle figures a tiny, temporary snow cloud like the one she’s called down over the clearing can’t hurt.

Certainly the glow on Scylla’s face when Raelle puts her back down again makes it all feel absolutely worth it.

“You romantic,” she teases, brushing snow off Raelle’s hat before pulling it more snugly over her ears.

Raelle grins and leans down to kiss her swiftly. “You had a look in your eyes, earlier,” she says. “Like you were waiting to see something beautiful.” She shrugs. “Figured I’d give that to you.”

Scylla hums, fingers idly playing with the ends of Raelle’s braids. “I was thinking about the snow in Colorado,” she admits. “We lived there for a while, when I was little. The cold today feels exactly the same as it did there.” She bites her lip for a moment, studying Raelle’s face. “How’d you know?”

Raelle shrugs. “Got lucky, I guess.”

Scylla smiles wider and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I think _I_ did.” 

And in spite of herself—in spite of how many times this has already happened, and how she should really know better by now—Raelle catches herself thinking once again: _it could be now_. True, she probably couldn’t get down on one knee, but the ring is still in the bottom of her pocket; and true, Abigail and Tally are on the other side of the pond, watching the two of them with a kind of amused exasperation. But none of that matters. Especially not now, when she’s just watched Abigail Bellweather teach her girlfriend how to skate. 

“Hey,” Scylla says, breaking her out of her reverie. “You okay?” She’s not quite smiling anymore, and that alone is enough to make the moment no longer perfect—to put all Raelle’s big plans back in their tidily scheduled boxes, where they belong. 

“Yeah,” she says, trying for a lighthearted tone. She cups a gloved hand around Scylla’s face, stroking her cheekbone with her thumb, but Scylla’s expression doesn’t soften. 

“You keep drifting off,” she says quietly. Her hand comes to settle over Raelle’s where it’s cradling her face. “Something’s got you distracted. I—”

Raelle silences her with a kiss, long and slow enough that Tally wolf-whistles from the other side of the pond. When she pulls away at last, there are snowflakes caught in Scylla’s eyelashes, and it’s _almost_ enough to tempt her into pulling the ring out again. 

“I’m okay,” she says instead. “I’m just…really happy.” She laughs a little, self-deprecating. “Guess I still don’t really know what to do with it.” 

The words feel completely inadequate when stacked against the enormity of what she feels; but they’re true, and they’re good enough at least to make Scylla start to smile again.

“You sure?” she whispers. 

And even though they’re both wearing ice skates in the middle of a frozen pond—even though Abigail and Tally are no doubt getting impatient, and the snow’s falling heavier and heavier over them the longer Raelle waits to call off the storm—Raelle pulls Scylla into her arms, brushing snow out of her hair as she tucks her secure against her chest.

“You make me happy,” she whispers against Scylla’s forehead. “That’s the _only_ thing I’m sure of.” 

~*~

They don’t have any plans for Christmas Eve—none, at least, which would require them to get dressed up—but Abigail insists they do anyway.

“It’s a _holiday_ ,” she repeats stubbornly, after Raelle makes a face at her. “You don’t wear your pajamas on holidays.”

“Since when do _you_ make the rules?” Raelle grouses. She’s sitting on the edge of Tally’s cot, mutinously holding a pair of folded dress pants in her lap. Beside her, Tally’s twirling and preening in a sparkly gold tunic dress, cheerfully ignoring the both of them.

If she’s being honest, Raelle doesn’t really mind having to dress up. It’s sort of sweet, actually, that Abigail cares so much about it. Not to mention, whatever Scylla’s changing into upstairs—which Raelle’s apparently not allowed to see yet—will be _well_ worth having to spend a few hours in an uncomfortable suit. 

No, Raelle thinks as she wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans. Dressing up isn’t the issue. The issue is that the proposal is just hours away, and already, Raelle feels like she could vibrate out of her skin. The literal, actual last thing she needs is for this occasion to feel like a bigger deal than it already is; putting a goddamn _suit_ on, like she’s already getting married—

She realizes then that Abigail and Tally have both gone quiet. When she looks up, she sees they’re both staring at her: Abigail with exasperated fondness, Tally with barely-concealed glee.

“Shut _up_ ,” she tells them both at once, feeling a traitorous flush creep up her neck. 

Abigail just raises a single eyebrow at her. “I’m not saying shit,” she says bluntly; but Raelle can see that she’s wrestling a smile off her face. Raelle’s not sure whether to be annoyed or endeared by it, and so errs on the side of caution, scowling back at her.

Tally rests a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine,” she reassures, rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. “And we’re gonna be there for you the whole time, aren’t we, Abi?”

In spite of herself, Raelle leans in to the touch. Much as she’d like to hold on to her irritation, the fact of the matter is that she’s _afraid_. Maybe even more afraid now than she ever was during the war. Which is ridiculous and stupid and maybe a little bit insane—but then again, if her relationship with Scylla has taught her nothing else, it’s that love’s a little bit insane, too.

And with all of this warring turbulently in her head and in her heart, it’s comforting to know somebody’s got her. 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Abigail replies, as if this should be obvious. “But part of _being there for her_ means not letting her propose to her girlfriend looking like hot garbage.”

Something hits the side of Raelle’s face with a soft _whump_ ; Abigail’s thrown her suit jacket at her. Raelle wrestles the fabric off her head and glowers at Abigail, who blinks back at her innocently. 

“Get dressed, shitbird,” she instructs. “You’ll thank me later.”

She’s right, of course—Raelle knows that—but still she makes a point of huffing an irritated breath before complying. 

When they make it back upstairs, they find the living room undergoing a transformation: suddenly there’s lighted garlands threaded clumsily around the windows, and every available surface seems to have a lit candle balanced on it. Edwin, dressed in his best suit and tie, is balancing precariously on a stepladder, fixing a mistletoe wreath above the doorway to the kitchen. When he sees the three of them emerge from the basement, he pauses to beam down at them. 

“What do we think, girls?” he asks, pulling the wreath a little bit to the left. “Is here good? We were running out of room out there.” 

He waits, but nobody says a word—collectively struck dumb by how different the living room looks. Even Raelle’s at a loss for words; her house doesn’t even look like her house anymore. It’s festive and bright, bathed in a warm glow from the tree and the candles and the garlands. In their speechless silence, she can hear music, too, coming from their old record player: a slow, jazzy rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” 

Tally finds her voice first: “It looks _amazing_ in here,” she says breathlessly. “Did you do all of this just while we were downstairs?” 

Edwin grins and shrugs, suddenly bashful. “Figured you girls went to the trouble of getting the tree,” he says. “Might as well put in some effort myself, make this place look nice.” He catches Raelle’s eye and lifts his eyebrows at her knowingly. “I did have some help, though.”

Raelle follows his gaze to the far side of the room, and for the first time, notices Scylla there, whispering a piece of Work over one last row of unlit candles. 

And _oh_.

If Raelle’s nerves were shot to hell a minute ago, they’re about a thousand times worse now. Because Scylla’s wearing that black dress with the halter neck that Raelle loves on her—but, surrounded as she is by the soft glow of the candles, the effect becomes absolutely _devastating_ . Even worse is when she finally looks up and sees Raelle staring: her face goes soft with awe, like the sight of _Raelle_ is too much for _her_ , and her cheeks go suddenly, furiously pink. Even from across the room, Raelle can see her fingers trembling as she places the last lit candle carefully back in its stand.

It ought to make her feel powerful—the way she can get Scylla hot and flustered with just a look. Instead, Raelle feels her palms prickling with sweat again.

“Hey,” she croaks out lamely.

“ _Goddess_ ,” Abigail groans through her teeth, somewhere close to Raelle’s ear. But Raelle barely registers more than the sound of her voice. She’s so wound up in Scylla—the freckles on her arms and the glint in her eye and the way her hair falls softly over her bare shoulders—she thinks the world could be ending around her, and she _still_ wouldn’t notice.

Scylla slides into her arms, then—which Raelle didn’t even notice were already extended to receive her—and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Hey,” she echoes, teasing. “Look who cleans up all nice.” 

“So did you.” It’s an understatement, Raelle thinks, but at the moment, she can’t think of anything more eloquent to say. Her brain is still busy trying to make sense of the fact that this girl—this warm, funny, stunningly beautiful girl—is _hers_.

That, in a few hours’ time, she’ll be asking Scylla to be hers forever.

She hears her dad clear his throat, then. “Guess we better start on that tree,” he says loudly. “Gotta get it decorated tonight or it’s not getting decorated at all.” 

He’s pointedly looking away from the two of them, but there’s a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Only slightly embarrassed, Raelle pulls herself with some reluctance out of Scylla’s embrace. “Right, yeah,” she says, avoiding the amused looks she’s getting from Tally and Abigail. “Tree. Okay.” 

But she stays where she is, watching as Tally, Abigail, and Scylla disperse toward the boxes of decorations stacked around the tree. It’s like she’s in a sort of trance, watching Scylla smile and accept a box that Abigail hands her—a trance that’s broken a second later by her dad, resting a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Take it easy, kid,” he says, softly so that only Raelle can hear. “You’re gonna do fine.” 

~*~

They do, eventually, manage to get the tree decorated—though not without a considerable number of distractions. First there’s Abigail, suggesting they break into the mead right away (“I’m doing this for _you_ , shitbird,” she says, shoving a glass into Raelle’s hands. “You need to fucking calm down.”). Then they all have to wait on Tally, who insists on flipping through Edwin’s entire collection of Christmas records till she finds “the _right_ one.” By the time they finally dig into the boxes of ornaments, they’re already lightly buzzed, listening to a choral arrangement of “The Christmas Song”; but even after that, the whole process ends up taking hours. 

Between breaks to refill drinks, Tally’s constant stream of questions (“What’s the significance of _this?”_ she’d asked, completely serious, while holding up an ordinary gold Christmas ball), and Scylla coming up with new, inventive excuses to drag Raelle under the mistletoe and kiss her breathless—Raelle’s surprised they manage to get anything done at all. 

It’s nice, though. The evening slips by slow and warm this way, with the fire crackling in the hearth and the lights from the tree and the candles bathing the room in a kind of reverent glow. Tally makes Abigail dance with her to “Jingle Bell Rock” in the middle of the living room, and nearly knocks over the tree in the process; and Raelle laughs so hard at the two of them, drunk and utterly ridiculous, that she has to bury her head in Scylla’s shoulder just to get herself under control. 

Edwin, meanwhile, has a beatific smile on his face the whole night. It warms Raelle all the way through to see him looking so happy: surrounded by all their chaos and laughter after so many quiet Christmases on his own. When Tally tries to give him one of his presents early—an ugly Christmas sweater of his own, Raelle’s sure—he looks genuinely stunned for a moment. 

“Thought all of _you_ were my present,” he says, nevertheless accepting the wrapped package. “Three bonus daughters for Christmas is already pretty darn generous, girls.” 

He makes it sound like he’s joking, but even from across the room, Raelle can see the emotion in his eyes, threatening to overflow. 

By the time they finish decorating the tree, it’s covered in so much tinsel and colored balls, you can hardly see its branches anymore. They all pause for a moment in front of it, admiring their handiwork.

“I was wrong before,” Tally declares, positively beaming at the garishness they’ve wrought. “ _Now_ it’s perfect.”

Raelle cuts a look at Abigail—fully expecting her to have a snarky retort at the ready—but Abigail surprises her by ignoring her completely, staring at the tree with an expression akin to wonder. She’s got Tally’s head propped on her shoulder and her free arm slung loosely around Raelle; and when she finally acknowledges Raelle’s gaze on her, it’s only to smile wryly.

“You know what, shitbird?” she says. “I think I’m starting to get it.” 

They all slowly disperse, after that. Tally drags Abigail and Edwin in for a game of poker by the fire, which Scylla begs out of, retreating instead to the kitchen with their empty cups. Raelle contemplates following her for a moment, before instead letting herself collapse on the sofa, face turned toward the light of the Christmas tree.

She’s _tired_ , all of a sudden. Maybe it’s the madness of the past week finally catching up to her, or the low hum of anxiety that’s been running under her skin all night. Either way, she’s pretty sure she dozes off for a bit, because the next thing she knows, she’s startling awake to the sound of Scylla’s voice, low next to her ear.

“C’mere,” she says. 

Raelle cracks an eyelid open to see Scylla leaning over her, braced against the arm of the couch. She’s got one of Tally’s Santa hats perched crookedly on her head, a pretty alcohol flush staining her cheeks; and suddenly, Raelle’s not only wide awake but _terrified_ , because Scylla is _so_ beautiful, and oh, God, what _time_ is it?

She steals a look at her watch. Eleven o’clock. Only an hour to go.

“Where’re we going?” she asks, groggy. 

Scylla just gives her a cryptic little half smile and tugs her off the couch, steering her gently in the direction of the kitchen.

“Trust me,” she says. There’s some of that old, familiar mischief in her tone—something that takes Raelle right back to Basic, and the pretty-eyed troublemaker she fell so hard for. Raelle finds herself acquiescing, sinking into her touch as she lets herself be led.

Scylla pauses at the kitchen door, where Edwin’s pushed the phonograph table into a corner. She deftly swaps out the record that’s playing (giving Raelle a pointed look when she tries to peer over Scylla’s shoulder and see), then leads Raelle over the threshold, pulling her into her arms to the opening strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Raelle laughs, settling her hands automatically on Scylla’s waist. “What’re we doing, Scyl?”

“We’re dancing.” Scylla says it like it should be obvious. She places one hand on Raelle’s shoulder, subtly guiding their movements, while lacing her other hand with Raelle’s. 

“We’re in my dad’s kitchen,” Raelle points out. 

Scylla raises an eyebrow at her. “Very observant,” she says, spinning them further away from the door.

“It’s just kind of a weird place to be doing this.” But the words sound unconvincing to Raelle’s ears even as they leave her mouth. It’s warm in the kitchen, if a little cramped, and the music coming in from outside the door is slow and jazzy and sweet; but best of all, having Scylla pressed close up against her, with her breath on Raelle’s cheek and their fingers intertwined—it’s like a balm for her anxiety. It instantly soothes her frenetic, racing heart.

She feels more than she hears Scylla’s soft chuckle, close to her ear. “We’re improvising,” she says. “I just—” 

She falters for a second, apparently at a loss for words. Then, the hand on Raelle’s shoulder pulls her subtly, impossibly closer, and Scylla admits in a softer voice: “I just…felt like dancing with you.”

Raelle moves her hand from Scylla’s hip to the small of her back—fingers almost grazing bare skin where the cut of her dress dips low. “You did?” she says, just as softly. 

She feels Scylla nod against her. There’s another moment of hesitation before she answers.

“You’re stressed,” she says at last. “You’re worried about something.”

Raelle’s heart starts beating double-time again; she’s sure Scylla can feel it. Nevertheless, she protests, “I’m not—”

“Shh,” Scylla cuts her off, pressing a soft kiss to her ear. “You are. I can tell.” She sounds almost amused, as if the idea of Raelle successfully keeping a secret from her is so absurd as to be funny. It’s endearing while also being completely fucking terrifying. 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” Scylla continues. “I know you will when you’re ready. But for now…” She shrugs. “Let me try and make it better, if I can.”

It’s eerily reminiscent of what Raelle told Abigail in the car a few days ago—about always wanting to make things okay for Scylla. That it should come up again, in this way and on this night, renders her temporarily speechless. 

“You always do,” she says, when she finally recovers her voice. “And I love you. You know that?” 

Scylla hums, and in that single note, Raelle can _hear_ that she’s smiling again. “I do know,” she says. “And I love you, too.” 

She leans into Raelle’s forehead and Raelle finally loosens the tension in her body; her limbs go slack, relying on Scylla to keep them both upright. She tucks her head into the crook of Scylla’s neck and presses a languid kiss to the freckle just beneath her ear. 

Now or never, she thinks. If she’s going to get them where they need to be by midnight, she can’t wait any longer to plant the idea. 

Raelle takes a deep breath—releasing it slowly, so Scylla will mistake it for a sigh—and says, in the most nonchalant tone she can muster, “Tell me about your favorite Christmas.”

Scylla goes so still in her arms that for a moment, Raelle’s afraid she’s said the wrong thing. But then Scylla relaxes, and there’s a teasing lilt in her voice once more when she says, “You already know that story.”

“I do,” Raelle agrees, mumbling the words against Scylla’s throat. “But I like to hear you tell it.” 

Dimly, she registers the record flipping over—the same voice, now singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” Scylla sways them gently back and forth in time to the music before she answers.

“I think I was about six,” she says at last. “And we were staying in this little town, somewhere in northern Oregon.” Her voice gets gradually softer and softer as she speaks, like she’s pulling away from Raelle, receding into memory. “There was a church in town with this big, old-fashioned belfry. They only rang the bells once every Sunday—I think because it was so old. But they sounded so beautiful.”

Raelle can _feel_ the suppressed laughter vibrating in Scylla’s chest, then. “I was so angry with my parents,” she says, voice rich with amusement. “When they said I wasn’t allowed to go on Sundays. I didn’t understand, then, that they weren’t for people like us.”

Raelle smiles against her collarbone. “Bet you were _such_ a cute kid.”

“Oh, _extremely_ adorable,” Scylla agrees. “But, anyway. That year on Christmas Eve, my mom woke me up just before midnight. I thought it was because Santa had come.”

“Bet you were pissed when she told you it wasn’t even morning yet.”

“You have _no_ idea.”

“I’ve seen you before you’ve had your coffee, in the morning, Scyl. I have _some_ idea.”

Scylla pokes her in the side. “Do you want me to tell the story or not?” 

Raelle nuzzles her head into Scylla’s neck instead of answering, and after a beat, Scylla continues.

“They took me to this hill overlooking the village. It was so cold, and so dark, and I was _so_ mad, but then—”

She pauses, words failing her once more. 

“They rang the bells for the midnight service,” Raelle interjects softly. “Right?” 

She pulls her head out of the crook of Scylla’s neck—worried, for a moment, that she’s upset Scylla by asking her to tell this story. She heaves an internal sigh of relief when she sees that Scylla’s _smiling_ : a distant sort of smile, yes, but gentle and brilliant and _real_.

“Yes,” she agrees. “They rang the bells. And just like that, it was Christmas. For _all_ of us—me and my parents, too.” 

Raelle can picture it all so clearly in her head: the slumbering town, with the stars wheeling brilliantly overhead. The bone-deep cold of a Pacific Northwest winter. Little Scylla, caught between her mother and her father, grouchy and sleepy and bundled up against the chill. How big her eyes must have gotten, when she heard those bells she loved, ringing out in the dead of night. 

She moves her hands from Scylla’s back to gently cradle her face, drawing her in for a slow kiss while she works up the nerve to say what she needs to say next. 

“There’s somewhere I want to take you, later,” she says when they break apart. She’s proud of how steady her voice remains, though she can _hear_ her pulse pounding in her ears. 

Scylla raises both eyebrows at her. “Going to show me something beautiful?” she teases, but there’s a question behind her words, too, a question that Raelle pretends not to hear. 

“Something like that,” she says. “Just—trust me, okay?”

And after a second, Scylla nods, and moves her hand to gently cup the side of Raelle’s neck. Her eyes widen at once, and Raelle realizes, to her horror, that Scylla can probably _feel_ her pulse thundering in her neck. 

She’s going to figure it out. She’s going to figure it all out, or, worse, she’s going to think something _bad’s_ about to happen, and Raelle—

“Of course,” Scylla says, interrupting Raelle’s panicked stream of consciousness. “Of course I’ll come.” But her eyes on Raelle are shrewd, searching; and after a long pause she adds, “But first, there’s something I want to give you.”

“Something you want to give me?” Raelle echoes, nervous. There’s something wicked and familiar in the slant of Scylla’s smile—something equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“Well, I _was_ going to wait till tomorrow.” Scylla casually laces her fingers back through Raelle’s and starts pulling her in the direction of the door. “But you’re clearly still stressed, so maybe if I give it to you now…”

She actually fucking _winks_ at Raelle. And just like that, Raelle’s heart is beating out of her chest for an entirely new reason.

“Scyl—” she starts to say.

“ _Trust_ me,” Scylla interrupts. The second time tonight she’s made that request of Raelle—knowing perfectly well, Raelle’s sure, that she’s completely helpless to do anything but obey. “I have a feeling it’s something you’ll like.” 

~*~

They just barely manage to slip through the living room and into the hall without being noticed. Tally, Abigail, and Edwin are still lounged around in front of the fire, engrossed in their card game—which, from the sounds of things, has devolved into loud, good-natured arguing between Tally and Abigail. Neither of them so much as pauses to glance up at Scylla or Raelle; but Edwin does, just for a second. His eyes are bleary with sleep and inebriation, but just before Scylla whisks her down the hall and out of sight, Raelle meets his eye, and swears she sees the barest hint of a smile.

Next thing she knows, though, she’s being dragged away: down the hall and over the threshold of her own bedroom. She has just enough time to notice that someone’s turned on the Christmas lights around her bed—and how nice it looks, in the dark—before that and every other thought goes flying straight out of her head.

Because the door has barely closed behind them before Scylla’s pushing her up against it—swallowing Raelle’s little noise of surprise with a hard, desperate kiss.

And even though Raelle was more or less expecting this—something _like_ this, anyway—there’s a dizzy, electrifying moment where she can’t seem to get her bearings. Where it feels a little bit like she’s drowning in Scylla: every inch of her pressed flush against every inch of Raelle, her tongue swiping over Raelle’s lower lip. It surprises her how good it feels, to lose herself like that. How much she misses it, when the disorientation fades, and her hands come to settle decisively on Scylla’s hips, pulling her impossibly closer while she kisses her back in kind.

Maybe it’s the hours of pent-up anxiety, or the lingering effects of the mead, or just how damn good Scylla looks in that dress. Whatever the reason, when Scylla responds by slipping her hands under the hem of Raelle’s shirt, her touch feels like it’s burning. The insistent press of her mouth, and her restless hands—tracing their way up Raelle’s stomach to the curve of her breasts, till Raelle moans into her mouth—it’s all so good as to be overwhelming. Raelle can already feel herself getting warm and wet from just a few kisses; when Scylla’s palm brushes over her nipple, she moans right into Scylla’s mouth, and hears her hum with pleasure in reply.

She knows she ought to be embarrassed by just how quickly she’s coming unraveled. But if Scylla’s touch was a balm before, it’s like a drug now; and all Raelle feels is completely, utterly frantic.

Still, when Scylla finally draws away for a moment—panting for breath, her cheeks flushed and hair a mess beneath that stupid hat—Raelle has enough presence of mind to gasp, “Scyl, wait.” She’s thinking of her dad and sisters in the next room, and how quickly this situation could turn _mortifying_ for everyone involved. But before she can say any of that, Scylla startles her by covering her mouth with her hand.

The moan that comes out of Raelle’s throat is embarrassingly wanton—part surprise at Scylla’s forcefulness, part reaction to a sudden, almost painful spike of arousal. Raelle sees surprise flicker across Scylla’s face, too: just for a second, before her eyes take on a wicked gleam, and she presses her hand more firmly against Raelle’s mouth.

“No talking,” she orders, in a tone of voice that makes Raelle feel distinctly less steady on her feet. It’s lucky she’s pressed up against the door, Scylla pinning her in place with her hips; otherwise, Raelle’s pretty sure she’d have collapsed on the floor already.

Scylla’s watching her with eyes gone so dark, Raelle can hardly see the blue of them at all anymore. It’s a look that really shouldn’t work with the Santa hat Scylla still, for some godforsaken reason, has on her head; but somehow, it’s still utterly _devastating_. Especially when Scylla pulls back a little and flashes Raelle a smug grin.

“That’s more like it,” she says. Which Raelle can’t help rolling her eyes at a little, even as her hips squirm up of their own accord, trying to grind against Scylla’s. Scylla acts like she doesn’t even notice, regarding Raelle with benevolent amusement.

Which ought to be _infuriating_. Instead, horrifyingly, it floods Raelle with heat—a slow, indolent fire being stoked to life in her lower belly.

She’s always known she’s completely weak for Scylla, but it still amazes and terrifies her just _how_ weak she can be. 

“Now,” Scylla says—clearly enjoying dragging this out. “I’m going to give you your Christmas present. And _you_ are going to be a good girl and keep quiet for me.” She loosens the hand she’s been using to keep Raelle quiet. On impulse, Raelle opens her mouth—to protest, or possibly to beg for relief—and without hesitation, Scylla slips two fingers between her lips, the motion so jarringly quick that Raelle barely manages to stifle a moan.

Scylla gives her a withering look, even as her fingers start curling against Raelle’s tongue. “I mean it,” she says, still in that same artless tone. “ _Only_ good girls get presents on Christmas.”

Raelle groans at that—less because it’s a terrible line (though it absolutely is, and she’ll be teasing Scylla about it later) and more because she seems to have forgotten how to speak entirely. Instead, she rubs her tongue against the pads of Scylla’s fingers, applying the lightest pressure with her teeth. Scylla, apparently taking her silence is acquiescence, makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat.

“Good,” she says, the word low and sultry in Raelle’s ear. “ _Such_ a good girl for me.”

And with her free hand, she gently starts to undo the buttons on Raelle’s shirt, one by one.

Raelle has no choice, after that, but to go utterly pliant beneath Scylla: sucking hard on the fingers in her mouth and watching the small, deft movements of her fingers as she slips Raelle’s shirt off her shoulders and undoes the clasp of her bra. Under different circumstances, she likes to think she’d put up more of a struggle. That at the very _least_ she’d try to flip them over, turning the tables on Scylla before letting her have her fun. But with even the smallest of touches, Scylla’s stoking the fire in her belly even higher; it licks its way slowly up her spine, threading out through her veins, till it’s like she can feel Scylla’s hands on every part of her. Till she feels positively _combustible_ , shaking with want in Scylla’s arms.

Once Raelle’s shirt and bra have been discarded, Scylla pulls back just enough to inspect her handiwork: eyes devouring every bare inch of Raelle with a lazily appreciative gaze. She slips her fingers out of Raelle’s mouth only to drag them, agonizingly slowly, over Raelle’s breasts and stomach. When her wet fingers pinch and tweak a stiff nipple, Raelle has to clap a hand over her _own_ mouth to muffle her cry. Scylla hums with approval and brings her mouth to Raelle’s neck, latching on to her pulse point with her teeth and flicking out with her tongue.

“You’re doing so well,” she purrs; Raelle can feel the sharp curve of her smile, moving lower to nip at her collarbone. “Wonder how long you can keep _that_ up for.”

Instead of attempting to reply—and being punished for breaking the rules of the game—Raelle takes advantage of Scylla’s position and tries to thread her fingers through her hair. She wants to see if she can get the upper hand, _just_ long enough to nudge Scylla’s head lower (closer to where she increasingly painfully _needs_ it), but she’s thwarted by the damn Santa hat again. When she tries to push it off Scylla’s head, Scylla immediately pauses her ministrations and looks up at Raelle reproachfully.

“Don’t touch the hat,” she scolds.

“Scyl—”

“I mean it. _Don’t touch the hat_.”

She looks so serious—even in her disheveled state, hair mussed and cheeks livid and that _stupid_ hat flopping in front of her face—that for a moment, Raelle pauses, genuinely contrite. But it doesn’t last long; the image before her is so _ridiculous_ that, after a beat, she can’t stop herself from grinning, shoulders starting to shake with suppressed laughter.

Scylla maintains the act for barely a minute longer before she breaks, too; and then they’re both laughing, pressed up against each other, Raelle wrapping Scylla in her arms while Scylla muffles her giggles in the crook of Raelle’s neck. 

And it’s such a warm and lovely thing, holding Scylla while she laughs, that Raelle _knows_ if she weren’t still pinned to this door—if her coat with the ring box in the pocket weren’t on the other side of the room—she’d be down on one knee right this minute.

“Okay,” Scylla says at last. There’s still a trace of laughter in her voice, but the gleam in her eye is wicked and predatory once more. “Shush. Let me give you your present.” She cuts a serious look at Raelle. “And I mean it. Touch the hat and I’ll stop.”

Raelle cants her hips against Scylla like she’s issuing a challenge. “Does this mean you’re finally gonna _start?”_ she whispers. Now that things are heating back up again, she’s uncomfortably aware of how wet she is—how tight the knot of tension in her lower belly has become. 

Scylla responds by dragging her into a punishing kiss, pressing her knee firmly against Raelle’s cunt. Raelle bites down on Scylla’s lower lip to keep from crying out at the contact, and is pleased when it’s Scylla who gives a startled little moan, instead. Scylla’s not to be outdone, though: she tracks her mouth down lower, laving her teeth and tongue across Raelle’s jaw and neck. Her hands come up to cover Raelle’s breasts, running her knuckles over Raelle’s nipples before switching out her hands for her tongue. 

It’s then that Raelle decides she’s officially past the point of being too proud to beg. She digs her fingers hard into Scylla’s bare shoulders and, as loud as she dares, whines, “ _Scylla.”_

She’s half expecting this to backfire—for Scylla to continue denying her, this time as punishment for breaking the rules of the game. Part of her even thinks she wouldn’t mind that so much: Scylla, with that wicked look on her face, sitting smug and idle on her heels while Raelle writhes desperately under her. But Scylla, apparently, is feeling merciful: she runs her fingers over Raelle’s flushed, overheated skin, and in one deft move, yanks down her pants and underwear.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she says with quiet astonishment—momentarily forgetting her sultry voice. Raelle has to put a hand over her own mouth again as a new rush of heat overtakes her: wetness all over her thighs, her cunt clenching helplessly around nothing.

“ _Please_ , Scyl,” she says, the words muffled by her fingers. “Please.” 

She nearly cries with relief when she sees Scylla sink to her knees, and feels Scylla’s fingers press into her inner thighs. Gently, Scylla spreads her legs apart, holding them in place while she lowers her head and finally, _finally_ , takes a slow, teasing lap of Raelle’s folds with her tongue.

The sound that rises out of Raelle’s throat is almost too much for her to muffle. Her head slams back against the door, with a sturdy _thunk_ that makes them both pause for a breathless, fearful second; then Scylla licks another broad stripe up Raelle’s cunt, and it’s all Raelle can do to press her fingers against the door at her back while she wills herself not to scream.

After a few more teasing strokes with her tongue—designed, it seems, to severely test Raelle’s willpower—Scylla stops playing with her and doubles down. She presses against Raelle’s clit with the flat of her tongue and lets Raelle grind against her: hips jerking erratically as tension builds hard and fast in her lower belly. Scylla seems to sense it, too, because she pushes Raelle’s shaking thighs even further apart, fingers still digging into them hard enough to bruise; and then she lowers her head again, this time wrapping her lips around Raelle’s clit and alternating between hard strokes and light suction.

Raelle’s pretty sure this is what dying feels like—careening toward the edge but _not quite reaching it_ —till she looks down and sees Scylla’s eyes looking steadily back at her. Her mouth is slick with Raelle’s arousal, tongue working relentlessly against her, and that _fucking stupid hat_ slipping down into her eyes; but it’s the way she’s looking at Raelle that finally breaks the coil of tension in her belly, tipping her at last right over the edge.

She comes with her hand pressed hard to her mouth, wanton moans ripping out of her throat as Scylla strokes her through her orgasm, tongue steadily moving against her until Raelle squirms away, overstimulated. Scylla stands up, then—delicately wiping her mouth on the back of her hand—and surveys her handiwork, looking unbearably self-satisfied about it.

“Merry Christmas,” she says; and Raelle just laughs hoarsely in reply, dragging her close so she can kiss the smirk off her face.

They trade lazy kisses for a few minutes before Scylla pulls away. “They’re gonna start wondering where we are,” she murmurs, careful to still keep her voice low. 

Raelle thinks, dimly, that whatever damage has been done—however much, if anything, her dad and sisters heard—being quiet _now_ isn’t going to do much to help. She doesn’t say anything, though: just strokes Scylla’s hair weakly, and rests the back of her head against the door.

Scylla hums with pleasure at her touch, then adds, after a moment, “Seriously, we’d better go. And _you’d_ better make yourself presentable again.” 

“Presentable—?” Raelle still can’t quite think straight. It’s as if Scylla’s speaking a language she understood, once, but hasn’t spoken in years. “Scyl, I don’t—”

“I’m going to go wash up first,” Scylla interrupts cheerfully. “Don’t follow me right away, okay?” 

And she kisses Raelle once more, lightly on the mouth, before all but _skipping_ out of the bedroom: still mussed and flushed and too damn pleased with herself. Once she’s gone, Raelle’s still slumped against the door, utterly wrecked and still not quite able to catch her breath.

This girl, she thinks, incredulous. This girl will be the absolute death of her. 

She can’t wait till she’s her _wife_. 

~*~

The plan—which, by Raelle’s estimate, is due to be set in motion in just fifteen minutes—is this:

At eleven-thirty, Raelle will announce that the four of them need to go for a drive. She’ll claim it’s because she has a surprise for them, something time-sensitive, which can only be done outdoors. Maybe she’ll remind Scylla that there was something she wanted to show her, and maybe Scylla will be confused that Abigail and Tally are also involved. Maybe—and the thought makes Raelle’s stomach flip pleasantly—maybe Scylla’s even been hoping for something like what Raelle’s planned to deliver.

Either way, bringing Abigail and Tally along will hopefully be enough to quell any suspicions Scylla has. And Abigail and Tally _will_ come along, once they’ve made a show of protesting—it’s so late, they’re too drunk, and nobody’s dressed for the cold. Then they’ll relent, and everyone will bundle themselves into coats and hats; and Raelle will gather them all into the truck, ideally with no less than ten minutes to spare. 

After that, Raelle will drive them all to the hill where they spent the Solstice—the hill that overlooks most of the town, which, on Christmas Eve, will be blazing with a light even brighter than a few nights ago. But as far as Raelle’s concerned, only one of those lit-up houses is important tonight: the church in the middle of the town square. A tiny, shabby building that appears to be sagging into its own foundations, but whose sharp, pointed spire nevertheless stretches declaratively toward the sky. A place where, tonight, hundreds of people in town will be gathering to hear the midnight service.

A place where—just as the clock strikes midnight on Christmas morning—they’ll ring out the bells.

And _that_ will be Abigail and Tally’s cue to slip away. That’ll be when Raelle finally, _properly_ , gets down on one knee and proposes.

The idea for all of this has been with her for well over a year—ever since last December, and the first time Scylla told her the story of her favorite Christmas. When she’d gotten to the part with the church, and the bells ringing out at midnight, the thought had burst into Raelle’s head, firecracker-bright: _I could do that for her_. So enormous and unmistakable, she’d almost missed the rest of what Scylla was saying.

She thinks of it again now—as her breath finally starts to slow, and she remembers that her pants are still pooled around her ankles—because at this point, it’s become a kind of ritual. For over a year, she’s been carefully thinking and planning all of this: dragging her sisters into her schemes and getting her dad to bring her mom’s ring to Fort Salem. Going over the fine points of the plan once more reminds her that she’s prepared for this, whether or not her painfully beating heart agrees.

When she finally manages to make herself presentable—or, at the very least, to make herself look like she _didn’t_ just get fucked up against her bedroom door—she makes her way back out into the living room. Tally and her dad are still playing cards in front of the fire (her dad looking significantly less awake than the last time she saw him), but Abigail’s apparently sitting out this round, curled up on the sofa with a drink in her hand, staring contemplatively into the fire. When she sees Raelle come in, though, she shoots her a quick, meaningful look before subtly indicating her head toward Scylla.

Scylla, who’s taken Abigail’s spot on the floor with Tally and Edwin. Who somehow, the little _shit_ , looks completely normal: hair neat and dress straightened, laughing gently at something Tally’s said. When she notices Raelle staring at her, she glances up and has the fucking audacity to _wink_ before coolly returning her attention to her cards. 

Raelle has to grip the edge of the sofa just to get a handle on herself. When she looks back in Abigail’s direction, she sees her pulling a slightly sour face; which, _shit_. 

“No,” Abigail mutters out of the corner of her mouth. Like she’s read Raelle’s thoughts again, and, judging by her tone this time, she’s not all that impressed with them. “The answer is no, you guys are _not_ subtle. _Sit down.”_ This last part hissed through her teeth. 

Raelle obeys—mostly, she tells herself, because she’s still a little shaky on her feet. She settles in beside Abigail, trying to be casual about it; but either she’s failing miserably, or her panic is written all over her face, because a moment later, Abigail reaches over and gives her knee an awkward pat. 

“Five minutes,” she says in the same undertone. “Get it together.” Her words are kind, if characteristically blunt; but suddenly, Raelle can’t find any comfort in them. Can’t make out _anything_ Abigail’s just said, apart from those two dire words: _five minutes_.

Five minutes till they have to leave. Five minutes till everything changes.

It’s stupid, she thinks, angrily wiping her sweaty palms on her pants for the umpteenth time. It’s not like she thinks this will be a mistake; if anything, it’s the _only_ thing in her life that she’s absolutely sure of. Nor does it even seem remotely possible that Scylla might say no. Whenever marriage has come up between them in the past, Scylla’s gotten a certain look on her face—a bit, now that Raelle thinks about it, like the way she looked the other day, when Raelle caught her staring at the sky. Like she’d been offered something impossibly beautiful—something that she couldn’t quite believe was for _her._

Which Raelle thinks she can almost understand. Scylla was brutally orphaned, then left on her own for _years_ . To belong to someone again—to have a _family_ —must have, at times, felt like a dream too big. 

It’s a thought that’s been crossing Raelle’s mind a lot, lately. But for some reason, this time it makes her pause. It’s like there’s another thought just below the surface of this one, struggling to break through the surface—something terribly, urgently important that Raelle’s been missing for a while. It’s so all-consuming that she doesn’t even realize she’s breathing heavily again, till Abigail casts a worried look first at her, then at the rest of their family, all still happily oblivious by the fire. 

That’s when it hits her, like a firecracker explosion in her brain. Like the one that started all this in the first place—the one that brought them all here, together, now. 

_Their family._

Of _course._

Raelle looks over at Scylla—who’s actually _laughing_ against Tally’s shoulder, cards spilling drunkenly out of her hands while Edwin grumbles in mock-outrage at them both—and it’s all the confirmation she needs. Suddenly, every moment that’s led her here has been thrown into glaringly sharp relief: all those times she wanted to propose before tonight, moved by an impulse she felt, at the time, was beyond her control. On the porch with her dad. On the pond after Abigail taught Scylla to skate. At the Christmas market, even with Tally right there, looking on in amusement. 

It’s not that Scylla wouldn’t love hearing the bells. Raelle knows it would mean more to her than almost anything—being given back a piece of a moment she holds so dear. But Raelle wants Scylla to know that she’s always going to try and make things better for her. And she realizes, now, that _better_ can’t always mean reminding her of everything she’s lost.

 _Better_ can also mean giving her something new. _Better_ can mean telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she has a family again.

When Raelle turns back to face Abigail, she’s feeling steadier than she has all evening—which is at least steady enough to look her dead in the eye and, “Don’t be pissed—”

Abigail cuts her off. “Absolutely _not_ ,” she hisses, throwing a cautious look in Scylla’s direction before turning back to Raelle with a glare. “You are _not_ chickening out of this, shitbird. I am not letting you do that to her. I am not letting you do that to _me_.”

She looks like she could happily windstrike Raelle across the room and not even bat an eye. But Raelle’s less concerned with that than with the way she just unconsciously put Scylla first. _I am not letting you do that to her_. 

It’s like a confirmation of everything that’s suddenly running rapid-fire through her head. Suddenly, she feels absolutely punch-drunk with joy—like she could burst out laughing right now. It’s clearly all over her face, too, because the look on Abigail’s face becomes slightly incredulous, and a little concerned.

“I’m not,” Raelle manages to whisper. She bites down on the inside of her cheek in an effort to rein in her delight, and holds her hands up in surrender just in case Abigail _does_ decide to windstrike her. “I promise I’m not. I’m just—there’s gotta be a change of plans.”

“Rae, I swear to fucking—”

“It’s _okay_ , Abigail.” A new plan is already spinning itself into shape in Raelle’s mind—something decidedly less spectacular than the old one, but _better_ , in every way that counts. “It’s still happening, just…”

She casts a look desperately in Tally’s direction. This would be so much easier if she could talk to both of them at once, but it doesn’t matter. She’s sure, in a way she never was before, that everything’s going to work out perfectly.

“I’ll tell you later,” she says at last. “Okay? Wait up for me downstairs tonight.”

“Wait _up—?”_

“And see if Tally’s got any Christmas paper left over,” Raelle adds. Privately, she’s enjoying the way Abigail’s expression keeps contorting from annoyance to slack-jawed disbelief. It’s not easy to throw Abigail Bellweather this thoroughly off her game. “I’ve got one more thing I need to wrap.” 

~*~

When Raelle wakes up on Christmas morning, it’s to the smell of rain, and cool gray light spilling in through the blinds. Everything’s got a soft, hazy way about it—all the edges in the room somehow blunted—and, best of all, Scylla’s curled up against her: head tucked into the crook of Raelle’s neck and arm flung around her middle, holding her tight. 

It’s _peaceful_ —almost as if, in the absence of the sun, the world’s decided to just keep on dreaming. It’s a notion Raelle thinks she could happily get behind. Her body aches with exhaustion, the late night and the even-later conference with her sisters keeping her pinned to the bed as much as the weight of Scylla’s arm is. For a moment, she’s tempted to just give in to it. To pull Scylla into her arms and let the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing lull her back to sleep. 

But thinking of last night reminds her that it’s morning now— _Christmas_ morning—and that there are things she needs to do. Things which she’s already waited long enough for. When she glances down again at Scylla, her sleep-tousled hair and the slow, gentle rise and fall of her chest, she thinks they’ve _both_ waited long enough for this.

And so she presses gentle lips to Scylla’s forehead, and a minute later, feels her start to stir. Her hand gropes blindly for Raelle’s, just like always; but this time, Raelle is ready to catch it.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispers against Scylla’s forehead.

Scylla makes a drowsy noise of agreement. “Merry Christmas,” she says, in that sleep-roughened voice Raelle loves. “What time’s it?” 

Raelle steals a glance at the clock on her bedside table. “Almost nine,” she replies. Later than she thought. She’s surprised Tally hasn’t come banging on their door yet. 

“Hmm.” Scylla pulls away from her, stretching languorously before turning her head to face Raelle’s. “What were you doing up so late last night?”

Raelle’s stomach dips anxiously. She thought she’d been so careful to wait until Scylla was asleep to slip down to the basement. It occurs to her, now, that the Raelle of last night—tipsy on mead and drunk on her new plan to propose—may not have been the best judge of things.

She’s still fumbling for an excuse when Scylla squints her eyes open and adds, grinning, “Thought you might be waiting up for Santa.”

Raelle exhales slowly, on a much more even keel now. “Come on,” she teases, rolling closer so that she can throw an arm around Scylla. “ _Everyone_ knows Santa doesn’t come unless you’re fast asleep.”

Scylla giggles, the sound turning into a hum of pleasure as Raelle slips a hand beneath her shirt to stroke her back. “Guess you’re not getting any presents this year.”

“Well, that depends.” Raelle kisses her shoulder. “Have I been naughty or nice?” 

“Definitely naughty. Definitely no presents.”

“Mean.” Raelle nips lightly at the spot where Scylla’s shirt has fallen away from her collarbone. “When you _know_ I can be _so_ nice when I want to.” 

It’s at that exact moment that Tally chooses to bang on the door—just as Raelle predicted, though this time, at least, she doesn’t come barging in. “Merry _Christmas!”_ she hollers from the other side. “Get up! We’re doing presents!” 

They hear her thundering back down the hallway, with an exuberance that somehow makes Raelle _more_ tired. She looks at Scylla and rolls her eyes; but she’s grinning, and so is Scylla, and when they slip out of bed a moment later, it’s without any complaints whatsoever.

When they arrive, everyone else is already gathered in the living room—Edwin in his favorite chair with a cup of coffee; Abigail nodding off against the arm of the sofa; and Tally, already fully dressed and fiddling with the record player. The tree’s been plugged in, the candles relit, and with the outside world so gray and gloomy, all that light fairly blazes.

It’s perfect, Raelle thinks. As close to perfect as can possibly be—the kind of perfect she never dared to dream of. Her whole family here together, and a light in Scylla’s eyes that Raelle thinks she wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

“Merry Christmas,” Raelle says to all of them at once; and one by one, she sees her dad and sisters smile back. 

After they’ve all been sufficiently caffeinated—and after a few frantic, last-minute presents have been retrieved from the bottoms of their suitcases—everyone gathers around the tree to exchange presents. Raelle situates herself against the base of the couch, letting Scylla nestle in beside her, and one by one, they trade off their gifts. It’s a slow process; the morning slips away lazily, with frequent breaks to refill coffee and scrounge breakfast out of the pantry. Raelle thinks she ought to be more anxious, as they get closer and closer to the last of the presents, but in truth, she’s more at ease than she thought she’d be. She likes all of this. Likes listening to her sisters’ laughter, and her dad good-naturedly ribbing Abigail over the tie she’s bought him, and the solid weight of Scylla on her shoulder.

All of it, she thinks. All of it is good. 

Still, when the pile of gifts has dwindled down to almost nothing, her stomach does a little backflip; and she has to steady herself before she catches Tally’s eye and nods. When Scylla’s glancing the other way, Raelle slips the package under the tree, nudging it a little ways out of sight so that it looks like it was always there. 

“Scylla,” Tally says then—in such a loud, obvious voice that Raelle cringes a little in spite of herself. “Looks like there’s another one for you.”

Scylla’s brow knits with confusion, but she reaches under the tree to retrieve it anyway. When she sees that the only name on the package is her own, she turns to Raelle, a question in her eyes.

“Is this from you?” she asks; but somehow, Raelle doesn’t think that’s the only thing she’s asking. 

She swallows hard. Even though she _knows,_ without a doubt, that everything about this moment is absolutely, perfectly right, her palms still itch with sweat; and her mouth, when she opens it to speak, is suddenly dry as a bone.

“Open it,” she manages. 

She can feel the eyes of every single person in the room bearing down on her as Scylla fumbles to take the outer wrapping off the box. But when Scylla cracks open the lid—when she sees Willa’s ring, nestled in its protective bed—it’s like they just fade away. All Raelle can see is _her:_ blue eyes, wide with disbelief, staring back at her. 

“Raelle,” Scylla says. Her voice wobbles a little on the second syllable. “Raelle, this isn’t—?”

And even though her dad and sisters are watching—even though, extraordinary circumstances notwithstanding, Abigail will give her _hell_ for this—Raelle pulls Scylla into her arms. It’s awkward, with the two of them sitting on the floor—not at all the down-on-one-knee proposal Raelle envisioned—but Raelle almost thinks it might be better this way. Especially when she realizes she can feel Scylla’s heart beating, just as fast as Raelle’s. 

“Yeah, it is,” she says softly. Her hand comes up to trace the line of Scylla’s jaw. “Surprise, Scyl.” 

Scylla laughs. It comes out sounding a bit like a sob, but the smile on her face is fairly _luminous_. Raelle drags her finger along the edge of it before continuing.

“I know this isn’t all that romantic—”

“Rae,” Scylla admonishes, still sounding like she’s on the verge of tears.

“And I know that, like, everybody’s here with us. But I wanted them to be.” Raelle cups her hand around Scylla’s jaw, stroking her cheekbone with her thumb. “Because they’re your family, too, Scyl. And _I’m_ your family.” She hesitates for just a moment. “And I want you to be mine. Forever.” 

She sees Scylla’s eyes fill, and feels the dampness of her tears on her hand, but she brushes it away, determined. Even though she knows these are happy tears, she’s made a commitment: she’ll always make things better for Scylla. No matter what.

Instead of replying, Scylla drags her in for a deep, slow kiss. After an uncertain beat, Tally whoops, and Raelle hears Abigail and her dad start clapping; and it’s like that’s enough to give her body permission to let go, and wrap her arms fully around Scylla, pulling her so close that there’s no space between them. 

When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard, staring at each other like this is the first time they’re seeing each other’s faces. Which, Raelle thinks, with a pleasurable thrill, they sort of _are_. Scylla hasn’t said anything yet, but she’s pretty sure they might be fiancés now.

“To be clear,” she says breathlessly, pressing her forehead against Scylla’s, “I’m asking you to marry me.”

Scylla laughs and swipes a last stray tear out of her eye. “To be clear,” she echoes, “I’m saying yes.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah.” Scylla shakes her head in disbelief. “Yeah, it _is_ good.”

And she holds out her hand for Raelle to slip the ring onto. Once it’s there, winking bright on her finger in the glow from the Christmas lights, she pulls Raelle in by the collar for another long kiss, which Raelle, ogling family members be damned, happily lets herself get lost in.

“No _fucking_ way,” she hears Abigail say.

Raelle sighs audibly into the kiss, and Scylla giggles. Back to reality at last, she supposes; the post-proposal glow didn’t take very long to fade.

She manages to tear herself away from Scylla and turn, glaring, in Abigail’s direction—only to see that Abigail isn’t looking at them at all. That nobody’s looking at her or Scylla anymore. Everyone’s attention is fixed on the front door—which has been left ajar, with only the storm door protecting them from the elements.

And on the other side of it, fat white snowflakes are swiftly, steadily plummeting toward the earth.

Raelle looks at Tally and sees her entire face lit up in a way Raelle’s never seen before: pure, unadulterated joy making her positively glow from within.

“It’s _Christmas snow_ ,” she says reverently.

Edwin scratches his head. “It’s _way_ too early for snow,” he says, incredulous. “Unless one of you girls…?”

Raelle, Abigail, and Scylla all shake their heads, but Tally’s paying them no attention. She’s already diving for the front door, where her boots are sitting—shoving her feet into them so fast, she fails to notice her left shoe on her right foot. 

“ _You_ did this,” she says, pointing at Scylla and Raelle.

“Tal, we didn’t—”

“Love!” Tally’s already halfway out the door, calling over her shoulder. “ _Love_ did this!” 

And she disappears into the snow, leaving the rest of them slightly stunned in her wake. After a moment, Abigail shakes her head, chuckles, and goes for her boots, as well.

Raelle pulls Scylla back into the cradle of her body and watches them go. She’ll follow in a minute, she thinks; for right now, she wants to soak in every second of this moment. Wants to memorize the way it feels to notch her chin on Scylla’s shoulder, and see her mom’s engagement ring sparkling on Scylla’s finger when she reaches for her hand.

Wants to think about what Tally just said— _love did this_ —and then look around her and see it’s true. 

Raelle kisses Scylla’s cheek. “I love you,” she whispers, close to her ear.

Scylla squeezes her hand and whispers it back. “I love _you_.” 

And together, they watch through the door as the snow continues to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks again to [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane) for beta-ing. All mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> Happy holidays to all who celebrate!!!


End file.
